


Rosemary and Remorse

by DoveFeatheredRaven



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Background Hastur/Ligur - Freeform, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2020-10-04 20:46:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 59,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20477228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoveFeatheredRaven/pseuds/DoveFeatheredRaven
Summary: Determined to prevent another war between Heaven and Hell, Aziraphale searches for the missing Archangels, hoping they will help him protect the Earth. Only problem is, no one has seen them in Heaven since before the Fall. Meanwhile, Crowley runs into someone he never thought he'd see again. Ligur is back, he's human, and pissed as hell at Crowley for 'purifying' his demonic soul with holy water. Crowley's quest to make amends to Ligur brings him closer to Aziraphale, forcing them to confront the feelings for each other that have been growing for the past six thousand years.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, here it is! Rosemary and Remorse! I've been working on this baby for half the summer, and though I'm afraid it's not perfect yet, it's finally in a state where I think I can let it go. It is complete, except for some edits that I've been making gradually, and I plan to post a chapter every couple days. This is my first finished (short) novel-length fic, and I'm so excited to share it!

Crowley was dreaming of hellfire and holy water. Scorching heat seared his skin, and he watched in helpless agony as his flesh bubbled up in red blisters which burst and wept with clear fluid, the edges of the burns charred and dying as he was consumed by the ravenous flames. He fell to his knees, and couldn’t find the breath to scream. From somewhere behind him, or perhaps surrounding him on every side, even from within, he heard the buzzing of flies and knew this was his final punishment, the death penalty for his crime of high treason. 

He had escaped once, never really believing they would let him go, but judgement had come too soon, he wasn’t ready to say goodbye to the world. Wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Aziraphale. 

Before the licking crimson flames overtook his vision entirely, Crowley’s last sight was of an explosion of downy white feathers, spattered with blood, curling and burning in the inferno. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley was out of bed before he even realized what was happening. The blankets tangled around his legs and he fell hard on his elbows, the pain shocking him awake. Panting, he pressed his face into the cool wood floor.  _ Just a dream _ . But so close to what he feared in reality that he couldn’t still his pounding heartbeat. 

Hardly a month had passed since he and Aziraphale had tricked Heaven and Hell, saving themselves from execution and hopefully buying themselves some time in the process. But they would try again, Crowley was certain, if only to save face. They were probably more upset about the embarrassment than the actual trouble Crowley and Aziraphale had caused, averting the end of the world and all. But he knew Gabriel wasn’t one to drop a grudge easily, and Crowley’s bosses in Hell had never seemed to like him much, anyway. 

It was only a matter of time.

Lying on the floor, shrouded in the remnants of his nightmare, Crowley thought he could still hear flies swarming. He freed his legs from the sheet and sat on the edge of the bed, wiping cold sweat from his brow. There was definitely buzzing, and another sound too, like claws clicking against hardwood floors. 

Was his dream leaking into the waking world? No. He heard it again, a grating rasp, impossibly loud in the hushed building. Reality had intruded upon his fevered sleep, not the other way around.

_ They’re here. _

Crowley tried to quiet his breathing, but he was quickly growing dizzy with fear and couldn’t seem to get enough air. Slowly, he opened his bedroom door and looked down the hallway to the front door. Despite the nighttime darkness inside his flat, he could see that it was still closed and the lock was still secure. Funny, it didn’t make him feel at all comforted. 

Again came the scratching sound from outside the flat, sharp and insistent like a whetstone sharpening the headsman’s blade. Crowley was frozen, hoping in vain that he was still dreaming, but the terror coursing through him promised otherwise. Where was the buzzing coming from? He couldn’t see any flies, and he couldn’t sense the raw, creeping demonic energy of Beelzebub. In fact, he couldn’t sense any demons at all. Instead he felt a cold darkness, like the chill of a graveyard, seeping through the cracks around the doorframe. More deadly than any ordinary demon. 

Crowley’s shallow breaths came out in a puff of frost. 

He edged into the hallway, thinking he could leap out the sitting room window and fly to freedom, as long as the beast behind the door didn’t get to him first. For a moment, the scratching stopped as if the creature sensed him mere feet away, but then it was replaced by muffled growls and the thud of a heavy body ramming the door. Crowley tripped backwards, never taking his eyes off the dark end of the hallway as he put as much distance between himself and the hell-fiend as he could. 

The flimsy, mortal door wouldn’t hold for long. On the other side, he heard guttural growls and the pop and crack of wood shearing away beneath sharp talons. Crowley fled to the kitchen and snatched a knife out of a drawer, not that it would do him much good. The door shuddered and groaned in its frame.

In one hand, Crowley wielded his knife, and with the other, he grabbed his mobile out of the pocket of his pajamas and unlocked it, fingers stiff and clumsy with cold. He tapped open the keypad, but hesitated. Who the fuck was he going to call? 

Animal control?

The Ghostbusters?

Another wet snarl and weighty thud, and Crowley thought he might vomit from fear. He was cornered. Oh, he could jump out the window, run as far as he wanted, but Hell would hound him until he collapsed from exhaustion. The creature they had sent to end him could get through the door if it wanted; it was just toying with him, probably enjoying the acrid scent of his terror. A meal was always more flavourful when it was well-seasoned. 

On the verge of complete panic, Crowley dialed the only number that mattered.

“Please, please, pick up,” he whispered in a ragged breath. 

The dial tone rang out, and Aziraphale’s voicemail message played automatically. The phone slipped out of Crowley’s grasp. Now with two hands he held the knife toward the door, as if he could cut the encroaching gloom with tempered steel. Wolves, or something worse, circled outside his door, and their snuffling breaths and scratching claws made him quail with despair. He felt like the first humans must have felt when they were cast out of the Garden, facing down the hungry wilderness, but Crowley didn’t have a flaming sword for protection. 

No matter. He wouldn’t go down without a fight. He would stare death in its lupine face even as it ripped out his throat and fed on his cursed soul. 

The sound of inhuman laughter surrounded him, and for an instant Crowley thought he saw twin blue flames through the dark wood of his front door, as if some hellish eyes were watching him. Had they always been there, witness to all the subversions he’d thought were secret? 

He couldn’t hide from Hell, and he couldn’t run, not anymore. Crowley hissed in defiance at the abhorrent creature behind the door, and he shook out his wings, preparing for what would surely be a fatal confrontation. But to his surprise, the scratching stopped, and heavy pawsteps receded down the hallway outside. The buzzing continued for a minute, like an oppressive weight upon his ears, but then even that faded, and Crowley was left alone in his flat. His muscles quivered with adrenaline and he shuffled his feathers, not ready to drop his guard. 

They might come back.

Of course they would come back, he just didn’t know when. He’d humiliated Hell--or at least, Aziraphale had, disguised as Crowley. And Hell wasn’t known for its leniency. 

Crowley sat on the kitchen counter, clutching his knife in one hand and his mobile in the other, until the late September sun rose over Soho and chased away the lingering shadows. 

\---

It was blisteringly hot for so late in the season, which Aziraphale supposed was a clear sign that everything was back to normal in Tadfield. The Antichrist was no longer manipulating reality, or if he was, it was on a scale small enough to be undetectable. Even so, he had decided it was best practice to make periodic checks on the boy in case his powers decided to resurface in some unpredictable fashion.

Therefore, Aziraphale found himself sitting on a park bench with Anathema, watching Adam and his friends kick a ball around the field. She’d brought a thermos of tea for them to share, and he’d brought sandwiches, and all in all it was rather a cozy way to spend an afternoon. When was the last time he’d gone for a picnic? It must have been last year, with Crowley and Warlock and the Dowlings, before the business of Armageddon had interrupted the peaceful world of their little family. 

With a pang, Aziraphale realized he could have invited Crowley today. He would have liked to say hi to Anathema and the kids. But despite the intervening month since they’d saved the world, Aziraphale still couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, the fear of being seen associating with a sworn enemy. Aziraphale’s superiors wouldn’t be pleased, but more importantly, it might put Crowley in danger. 

But things were different now, weren’t they? 

Aziraphale hoped, but he wasn’t sure, and that made all the difference. Gabriel, Michael, and Uriel were furious that the end of the world had been averted. Hell, they’d tried to put Aziraphale to death for his part in it, and though he was safe for now, thanks to Agnes’ prophecy and his and Crowley’s trick, they would almost certainly try again later. 

Though the day was warm and sunny and peaceful, Aziraphale felt cold with dread, as if he were being choked by vines that closed around him almost too slowly to observe. The three Archangels, the leaders of Heaven’s armies, wanted a war. 

Aziraphale didn’t know if he could stop it.

“What are you thinking about?” Anathema asked, giving him a look of concern. 

He sighed. “I was just hoping the world won’t need saving again for a good long time. Once was enough for one life, wouldn’t you say?” 

Anathema smiled wryly. Across the field, Adam and his friends chased after Dog, who’d stolen the ball and was making a mad dash for freedom. They looked like a normal group of kids. Who could have imagined the part they played in the end of the world, four short weeks ago? If Heaven and Hell were truly set on destroying the Earth, Aziraphale hoped it would be long after his friends in Tadfield had lived out their lives. 

They finished their lunch, which Aziraphale had made from scratch in his kitchen at the bookshop, and chatted for a while about the news of their lives. In the middle of Aziraphale’s tale of rescuing Crowley from his own mischief, a curious fog rolled over the park grounds and the sky rapidly darkened with heavy storm clouds. The rain came on fast; one minute it was sunny and summery and then the next a chill wind blew a cold front in, and fat raindrops soaked through Aziraphale’s coat. Running for cover, the kids headed back home, followed closely by Dog, who barked and lunged at the water splashed up by their heels. Anathema opened up a brolly, and she and Aziraphale squeezed together under it.

“Had a feeling I would need this when I left the house this morning,” she explained. 

It was strange, this rain. More than a freak summer storm, it had a feeling of enchantment about it. Aziraphale opened up his angelic sixth sense and allowed the ambient energy of the universe to flow through him. He heard the low thrum of Anathema’s soul like a song echoing in a waterfall cavern. On the surface, the rain fell like normal rain, but peering into a deeper layer of reality revealed the faint glow of white light, an angelic miracle being performed. Alarmed, Aziraphale scanned the park, until he caught sight of a figure in the distance, standing just within the tree line of the woods. 

He was broad-shouldered and wore a long coat. Rain dripped off his wings, which were the pale grey colour of a pigeon. 

“Angel friend of yours?” Anathema asked, wary. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the handle of the umbrella. 

“He is an angel, yes, but he’s no friend. That’s Gabriel.” 

“As in, the freaking Archangel Gabriel?” Despite the intensity of her words, she spoke in a whisper, as if she knew by instinct that they shouldn’t be overheard. 

As if there was any chance that Gabriel couldn’t hear them. “What does he want?” Anathema continued.

Aziraphale shook his head, chilled by more than just the rain. “He and the other higher-ups aren’t happy we saved the world. But he’s probably here for me, not you; I haven’t exactly made myself popular over the last several centuries.” 

The rain continued to fall, and the unpredictable wind blew it sideways just enough to make the umbrella completely useless. 

“I bet he’s doing this on purpose,” Anathema growled as a sudden gust blew cold water down their necks. 

In the shadows and the swirling fog, Gabriel continued to watch them, and Aziraphale said a silent thank you to God, or the Universe, or Zeus--whoever was listening--that he hadn’t brought Crowley into this. It was bad enough that Anathema was here. How the Hell was he supposed to keep everyone safe? 

As mysteriously as he’d come, Gabriel disappeared, as if he’d simply evaporated into the fog. The rain dumped down in torrents until it was spent, and then finally cracks appeared in the iron grey clouds and the blue sky winked through. Once the fog had blown away, Tadfield was green and sunny again.

Anathema and Aziraphale sat side by side with identical cheerless expressions, soaked to the bone. 

“Now I know what Archangels do for fun. Pour buckets of water on innocent people and then leave without a word. I mean, it’s just bad manners.” 

Combing water out of his hair with his fingers, Aziraphale chuckled bitterly. “I’m sorry to tell you, my dear, but we are hardly innocent in the eyes of Heaven.” 

For a moment, Anathema was quiet. “It’s rough up there, huh?” It was more a statement than a question. 

Aziraphale nodded. The angels weren’t a friendly crowd, despite what the romantic lore claimed. They were built to do one job--enact God’s will on Earth--and most of them were content to follow the orders of their superiors without question or argument. Aziraphale had been one of them once, but over the millenia he had grown fond of Earth. Humans were unpredictable, sometimes cruel, but often kind. And wasn’t the freedom to choose one’s own path preferable to the faint promise of a someday-Paradise? 

The world couldn’t end; it just couldn’t. There had to be other angels who felt the same way as Aziraphale. He thought of Crowley. It had been just the two of them, on their own side, for a very long time, but Aziraphale wondered if maybe they hadn’t looked hard enough. 

Michael, Gabriel, and Uriel were the Archangels responsible for leading Heaven’s army, for wielding the sword and spear in battle against Satan’s demonic forces. However, there had been other Archangels in the beginning, and if Aziraphale remembered correctly, some of them had been charged with healing and protecting humanity. If anyone could bring an Archangel back from the brink of war, it was another Archangel, right? 

“Anathema,” Aziraphale began carefully, the beginning of a plan forming in his mind, “what do you know of the seven Archangels?” 

\---

Free time and Crowley did not mix well. Being incommunicado from Hell meant no staff meetings to attend, no reports to turn in, and no official temptations to perform in the city of London. Sounded like a jolly vacation, and it had been, for a while. But after the terror he’d endured the night before, Crowley thought he wouldn’t mind being off Hell’s shit list, even if it meant going back to work. He was bored.

In fact, he almost missed reporting in about his temptations. It had been as fun as it was exasperating trying to explain to the technologically illiterate demons all the daily minor inconveniences he concocted for the people of London. He was still proud of the night he’d broken into a government building and taped the bottoms of every computer mouse he could find. Lord Dagon had been less than impressed, though Crowley suspected it was because they didn’t understand computers, nor the appeal of inconveniencing elected officials. 

So, without Hell to report to, and with his best friend busy with who-knows-what at the bookshop, Crowley struggled to keep his hands busy and mind occupied. It didn’t help that he couldn’t perform any major miracles without attracting Hell’s- or Heaven’s- or  _ someone’s  _ attention. Consequently, he had to keep it relatively low-key, which was not his style.

In the weeks after Armeggedon, Crowley bought several new plants and terrified them into submission, took the restored Bentley on a trip to the coast and back, visited a farmer’s market (where he demonically sampled produce  _ without ever buying anything) _ , and got plastered at a colourful nightclub. 

Actually, that last had been loads of fun. He thought he might have brought somebody home, but the details were rather hazy. In any case, the soreness in his muscles the next day suggested it had been a very good time indeed. As he misted his plants in the warmth of late afternoon, he wondered if he could ever tempt Aziraphale to come out with him one night. The aptly-named “Heaven” might be right up his alley… 

How was the angel coping so well with his sudden unending free time? Crowley wondered. Aziraphale always seemed busy, either shooing people out of his bookshop or hunting down rare manuscripts at auctions. The last time they’d spoken on the phone, Aziraphale had implied that he was working on a new project, something big, but he wouldn’t give Crowley any details in case they were overheard.

Crowley missed Aziraphale’s company, and he found it impossible to ignore that little ache in his chest on account of having nothing else to do that would distract him. Thinking back, he realized he’d only seen him once in the month after Armageddon, not counting their dinner at the Ritz to celebrate their successful trick over Heaven and Hell. That felt like ages ago. Then, a week later, he’d swung by the bookstore for drinks (lovely), but that was the last time they’d seen each other in person. 

Crowley sprawled on the dark leather sofa that faced the window in his flat, plant mister drooping from limp fingers, too listless to even terrify the greenery properly. He studied the patterns in the ceiling. For a moment, he considered switching on the TV just for some white noise to occupy his mind, but the effort seemed monumental. With a wet thud, the mister fell to the floor, and Crowley drifted into an unsettled sleep. 

That same evening, Crowley woke up with a low-grade stomach ache and the lingering wish that Doomsday would come ‘round again, just so he’d have something to do. He sat on the couch with his head in his hands for a moment. The sun was going down, and soon the city would be lit with the soft amber haze of old street lights. It was normally Crowley’s favourite time of the day, especially when dark clouds obscured the night sky and sent a cleansing rain down on the cobblestones. It made the world seem smaller. Reminded him of old times, slower times. 

Currently the twilight air was clear of rain, but Crowley thought he might take a walk anyway. He grabbed a dark jacket off the coat rack and headed out with the vague idea of finding something to eat. 

Soho at night was Crowley’s element. He loved the garish, vibrant neon of the clubs, the more stately incandescent bulbs of the theatre marquees, the rush of warmth and noise as he passed by a bar’s open doors. On one block, he caught the mouthwatering aroma of a late restaurant serving up the last meal of the night, and on the next he walked by a group of kids passing a joint and he flicked out his tongue and relished the conflicting scents. All the most fascinating people came out after the sun went down.

He peered hopefully through the front window of a sandwich shop where the queue didn’t look too long. Inside, the air conditioning felt nice after the warm, humid night. Crowley never liked being cold, but his blazer was doing more than an ample job, and he was never one to sacrifice style for comfort. He ordered his sandwich and as he waited, he decided to eat while walking to wherever he ended up next. 

Back on the street, one bite and a couple steps later, Crowley stopped short at the sight of someone he thought he’d never see again. Ducking into an alley, he whipped off his sunglasses to get a better look at the man leaning against the wall a few doors down. He was a good-looking man with dark brown skin, a bit on the shorter side, wearing a heavy leather jacket. A puff of smoke escaped his lips and he stubbed out his cigarette in the smoking urn by the door. Crowley’s head was a mess of emotions, surprise and fear and guilt mingling with a peculiar sense of envy for the man’s effortlessly suave sense of fashion. But he couldn’t stand halfway in an alley for the rest of the night, so not knowing what else to do, he put his sunglasses back on and strode forward as if old allies came back from the dead all the time. 

“Hey, Ligur!” 


	2. Chapter 2

“Are you absolutely certain that it’s there?”

“For the last time, Aziraphale, yes. It was hidden somewhere in the church after Agnes died.”

“And you’re certain it hasn’t been moved since then? That was several centuries ago, after all.” 

“Well…” Anathema hesitated, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “If it was moved, it wasn’t by anyone in my family, or I would have known about it. We’ll find it. I think.”

“Guys,” Newt chimed in from the driver’s seat of his rickety car. “We’re over halfway there. You could have had this conversation two hours ago.” 

Aziraphale pursed his lips. He wasn’t planning on turning around before he got a good look inside the church, where supposedly, a descendent had hidden one of Agnes’ journals in which she’d recorded the movements of the seven Archangels during the early 17th century. It was the first potential lead Anathema had been able to dig up, and they could only hope that the clues within its pages would lead to more recent steps in the Archangels’ histories. 

“It’s there,” Anathema said decisively. 

After another hour of driving, Newt pulled into a car park at the bottom of a hill, atop which the little rural church sat overlooking the cliffs of the southern coast of Devon. The church had been built in the 12th century, with substantial repairs in the mid-1700s, which was when Agnes’ journal was thought to have been hidden. It was rather quaint, but with a certain majesty brought on by its great age. 

Flower beds lined the edges of the building and led up the gravel path from the car park to the front doors. The sun, setting behind the little brick building, shone through the stained glass windows, as though the church was lit by holy light from within. Aziraphale’s heart always leapt at the sight of a church, but this one was breathtaking for all its rustic simplicity. 

It almost made him feel guilty for what they were about to do.

They waited until darkness had fallen, then they piled out of the car and crept in through the front, which swung open for Aziraphale with nary a creak or groan of the old iron hinges. Before stepping inside, Aziraphale pulled his black top coat tighter around himself and looked around to make sure no one was spying from a distance. They were in the clear, as far as he could tell. 

Of course, God might be watching, but there wasn’t much Aziraphale could do about that. She hadn’t shown much interest in Earthly affairs the past few thousand years, and Aziraphale hoped She wouldn’t start now. 

He wondered what She would think about a little breaking and entering of consecrated grounds. 

Inside, Anathema was kneeling in the crossing, the central section of the cross-shaped floor plan. From her bag, she took out an amethyst pendulum and held the chain between her thumb and middle finger. She spoke in a voice too low for Aziraphale to hear, and for several minutes, nothing happened. 

Aziraphale walked quietly up the aisle, underneath the arches whose ancient stones had heard centuries of sermons. The eyes of Mary peered down at him from the stained glass window, and her expression guarded secrets that Aziraphale couldn't begin to comprehend. She must have seen so many miracles performed, bore witness to so much pain as she watched over her congregation throughout the ages. 

Like a prayer, Anathema's whispered words echoed throughout the silent church. Aziraphale walked over to stand by Newt, and they watched Anathema's little pendulum swing in circles in response to her magic.

"It's gotten a taste of the energy of this place," Anathema said. "I think we're ready." 

She stood up and walked towards the end opposite the altar, and Aziraphale and Newt fell in behind her. Then, holding the pendulum out in front, she returned back up the nave. The pendulum swung back and forth erratically, as if confused, and Anathema paused for a moment and murmured words of encouragement. Behind her, Aziraphale and Newt shared a bemused look. 

As they approached the east wall, the pendulum began to lean forward on its chain as if pulled by a magnetic force. When they stood over the altar, a low table which supported various holy relics, the pendulum stilled, the apex of the stone pointing downwards into the Earth. 

The three of them knelt to look beneath the altar, careful not to disturb the altar cloth. Beneath the table, there was only the solid stones of the floor. 

"Oh, dear," Aziraphale said. Anathema and Newt nodded in pensive agreement. 

"You're an angel," Newt began, "can't you just magic it out?" 

Aziraphale considered for a moment. "Faith is a kind of magic all on its own. As such, holy objects tend to resist all other kinds of magic, especially that which could be considered… wicked. Unfortunately, I think the church would consider the defilement of its altar to be very wicked, indeed." 

He might be able to blast the stones apart with magic, or with a big enough miracle, he could transport Agnes' journal directly into his hands. But, both options sounded less than promising. One would make him feel rotten inside, and the other would attract the attention of every angel in Heaven. Aziraphale certainly wasn't the most committed angel around, but even he couldn't deface church property with his own God-given grace. 

"Well, you were right to pack the sledgehammers," Newt said wryly to Anathema, who looked at him askance. "Shall we get started?" 

"No." Aziraphale stood up and straightened his coat. "You two can sit down. I think this is something I have to do alone." 

Newt brought over his duffel bag filled with heavy tools, and then he and Anathema sat in the front pew. Carefully, Aziraphale dragged the altar aside, exposing the patch of stones which entombed Agnes' journal. Hidden underneath the floor, that book might hold the answers he so desperately sought. Or a clue to them, at least. 

If there was another way, he would have taken it. Another journal, another extraction method. It went against every instinct Aziraphale possessed to do what he was about to do. From Newt's duffel, he pulled a sledgehammer and held it in his hands, feeling like a surgeon about to recklessly cut into a perfectly healthy patient. 

Swallowing hard, Aziraphale cast his angelic senses into the ground. The holy warmth of the hallowed grounds enveloped him, making him feel a safety and comfort he knew he didn't deserve. He pushed energy into the stones, testing their strength, one last chance to bring the book up without physically abusing the church. They remained solid, unyielding, no matter how nicely he asked. 

He wasn't Moses, and this wasn't the Red Sea. He was Aziraphale, and this was the inconvenient floor, and a rare book. 

"This will make a fine story to tell Crowley," he said with a lightness he didn't feel. Anathema smiled back at him.

Lifting the hammer above his head, he brought it crashing down on the stone slab. The sound was enormous, and Aziraphale flinched so violently the hammer fell out of his hands. In his mind, he heard the crack of thunder as God cast the Fallen out of Heaven six thousand years ago. The first war had been vicious, and needless, and another war would only bring the same pain. 

He picked up the hammer. 

Another blow, another crack like the fury of the Almighty. 

Aziraphale drove the hammer into the ground again and again, until his shoulders ached and his fingers shook and the stone slabs finally cracked. He threw them aside, ignoring the burn in his hands as he touched the cool grey slate. His hands hurt from wielding the heavy tool, that was all. 

Underneath the floor was bare dirt, and he grabbed a shovel from the bag and started digging. His companions gathered around him and watched as each stab with the shovel blade brought him closer to the book. Sweat dripped from his brow; how deep was it buried? 

In Anathema's hand, the amethyst pendulum began to glow. After three more scoops of packed soil, the shovel made a dull clunk as it hit the top of a buried wooden chest. Dropping to his knees, Aziraphale dug around the chest with his own fingers and dragged it out of the belly of the Earth. 

The chest was small and so crusted with dirt that it looked like it was made from it. One of the decayed iron handles broke off in Aziraphale's hand, and he set it aside gently. He opened the lid, and inside was a leather journal wrapped in a soft cloth. 

"Anathema, would you like to do the honours?" 

Reverently, she removed the book from its swaddle and opened it, scanning the words inked by her ancestor's hand. Agnes' neat writing filled every page, and Anathema read aloud from several passages. In Anathema's voice, Agnes told of the Archangels: the warlike Michael, the ferocity of Gabriel, the light and fire of Uriel, and finally the stubborn gentleness of Raphael. There was a fifth angel who Agnes couldn't name, but she charted their movements carefully until her death in 1612. Concerning the fifth angel, Agnes had recorded a prediction that they would relocate to America during the time of the flowers of May, with the caveat that outside the borders of England, the Archangels were someone else's problem. 

The other two, she made no note of, other than to mention that she could not determine their location, past or future. 

Much of Agnes' report sounded familiar to Aziraphale. He vaguely remembered Uriel doing some work in England in the early 1600s which matched what Agnes had seen. He told Anathema to flip through for mentions of Raphael or the unnamed three, and was disappointed to hear little more. Agnes pondered at length about the mystery of the missing Archangels, but there was nothing concrete that might help Aziraphale find them. 

Her journal ended with a warning, which Anathema summed up as, "Don't fuck with Archangels." 

"As if we didn't already know that." Aziraphale stood and brushed dirt off his knees, trying not to let his disappointment show. After everything, what had he learned? The missing Archangels were still missing. Brilliant. 

"There's something else." Anathema shook a scrap of paper from under the back cover. "To findeth the answers thou seekest, thou wilt flyeth over the breaking seas and discover thy guardian angel in the new ordinary." 

He sat with that for a minute. Was the message for him? Probably. Agnes usually knew what she was doing. 

"She couldn't be a mite more vague, could she?" Newt said with an affable sarcasm. 

Anathema rested her chin in her hand. "That's just how she is. Honestly, I should have just kept the other prophecy book, because it doesn't look like I'll ever get out of it." 

"No, Anathema," Aziraphale said, looking over the faded piece of parchment. "This isn't your quest, it's mine." 

"Quest, huh. Well, good look translating without me, because my family have studied her writings for generations and despite our best efforts, we usually end up way off the mark. She's always right, though." 

With a sigh, Aziraphale put the paper in his coat pocket. He picked up the shovel and filled in the hole he'd dug as best he could, though somehow there wasn't enough dirt to fill it completely. Anathema and Newt helped him drag the cracked stones back into place. While the pieces fit together like a puzzle, there was still an indentation in the floor and cracks in the paving, and the sacred warmth had dissipated. 

He had broken this church.

But the humans would fix it easily. There was no lasting harm done. And, after all that, he had a clue, for what it was worth. 

Aziraphale led the way out of the church, feeling strangely buoyant. 

From the stained glass window in the middle of the north aisle, Mary looked upon the broken stones beneath the altar and gave her blessing to the wayward angel. 

\---

Crowley sat across from Ligur in the sandwich shop. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, but the brightness made the situation feel more surreal rather than clear, like an unsettling dream where reality was ever-so-slightly altered. Last time Crowley had seen Ligur, he had been melted into a puddle of demonic flesh and boiling holy water, splattered across the floor. He had died.

Crowley had killed him.

Yet there he was, leaning back in the plastic booth with his arms folded across his chest, expression wary. Crowley scanned him up and down several times, but couldn’t quite figure out what seemed off, until he realized Ligur was missing his familiar. His tightly curled hair was cut short, plain, and neat, but to Crowley it looked unbearably empty without the chameleon in its customary place. 

“So, you’re…” Crowley cleared his throat. He was glad of his sunglasses, because he didn’t want Ligur to see the guilt that was undoubtedly evident in his eyes. “You’re human, then?” 

“Seems that way,” Ligur said, looking stoutly at a point above Crowley’s left shoulder. 

“But, you’re alright, other than the whole, well…”

“Mortality business, you mean?” 

Crowley withered under the sharp heat of Ligur’s stare. He still couldn’t manage to wrap his head around what had happened. Ligur had survived holy water, more or less, though it had changed him. Crowley had assumed it was fatal to demons, but here was proof that they could survive, in some diminished way. Heaven would probably count this one as a win. A demon’s soul had been purified, and wasn’t that the angelic agenda, grace and forgiveness and whatnot? 

As for Hell, well, they never turned up their noses at murder. They might even praise him for his cunning theft and daring use of holy water if he ever bothered to mention it, not that Crowley would ever tell the whole truth. 

And yet, he still couldn’t meet Ligur’s eyes. 

“Share my sandwich?” Crowley asked lamely, handing Ligur half. 

The former demon raised his eyebrow. “Has Hell changed that much since I’ve been gone? I didn’t know we shared.” He let out a little huff of air that could have been a laugh, or a derisive snort. Whatever it was, he took a bite with a nod at Crowley that was just a little too casual. 

They ate in a strained silence. In the back of the store, employees bustled around sweeping, cleaning, chatting softly, but they sounded far away. All Crowley could hear was the blood rushing in his ears, and the sound of his own chewing, which suddenly seemed obscene. 

“Ligur…”

“Mhmm?” Still with that too-casual tone. Ligur’s eyes were bright. 

“I’m so sorry.” 

That would never be enough, Crowley knew as soon as he said it. Burning inside, he set his sunglasses on the tabletop and looked helplessly at Ligur.

“What do you want me to say?” 

“I don’t know. Nothing. I just-- Ligur, I couldn’t let the world end, and Hell would have stopped me, they would have killed me if you’d brought me back. I never meant-- I mean, I never knew--”

“Look, I don’t care.”

Inside his body, Crowley felt his guts twist. In all his years of being a demon and spreading chaos and temptation, he had never really hurt someone the way he’d hurt Ligur. Unbidden came the memory of Hastur’s screams, the smell of seared flesh. 

“It’s been hard enough adjusting to this new life, Crowley, I’m not going to deal with your bloody feelings on top of it.”

Crowley cleared his throat again. “Right.” He wanted to say more, to beg Ligur’s understanding, but he bit the words back. 

“Besides. I’m-- I was a demon. I don’t just go around forgiving people. We’re supposed to be evil. Holding grudges, serving up revenge. Or maybe Hell really has changed if we’re going around preaching the virtues of forgiveness and  _ sharing _ .” 

They both laughed, a little. Ligur uncrossed his arms and rested his elbows on the table. 

“Do you have everything you need, then?” Crowley asked. “A place to live, and-- and food and stuff?” 

Ligur nodded. “Yeah. My sister found me after I woke up human, used a little demonic miracle to set me up with a flat and a uh, money card. Credit card.” 

“Your sister?” 

“You remember Lila?” 

Crowley thought he knew the name, but couldn’t put it to a face. There were a lot of demons in Hell, after all. “Erm…”

“Great big bat?” Ligur gestured to his head. 

“Oh, right! She was the one influencing all that gothic architecture in the twelfth century, yeah?” Crowley jumped on the easy topic, anything to push aside the unbearable weight of his guilt. “I was always impressed by her work. Never could figure out why our side was so interested in cathedrals back then.” 

“It was something do with spreading heresy through the veneration of images.”

“Oh, clever,” Crowley said appreciatively. 

“Yeah, she really had an eye for it. She kept building the ceilings higher and walls thinner, until she finally got a choir to collapse under its own weight.” Ligur laughed, his eyes unfocused as if he were reliving the scene. “Then I think an angel stepped in and introduced safety inspections or some such. She stuck around on Earth for years after, but I never found out what she was doing.” 

“Well. It’s not so bad up here.” 

“Yeah, well, you’ve been here longer than anyone. You and that angel friend of yours. How’s he doing, anyway?”

“Oh, we’re not--” Crowley began to protest on impulse, then cut himself off. Who was he kidding? Aziraphale was his best friend, and all of Hell probably knew by now. “Ehh, he’s fine. I suppose. It’s just that--he’s been busy since the world almost ended. Working on something, won’t tell me what.” He fiddled with the hinges of his sunglasses. 

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” Ligur sighed. 

If Crowley hadn’t been preoccupied with his own thoughts about Aziraphale, he might have asked what Ligur meant. As it was, that little twinge of loneliness came back and all he could think about was his soft angel, puttering around the shop dusting bookshelves, or treating Crowley to the newest restaurant in London, the way he used to do. 

He rested his chin in his hand and tried to look more unconcerned than he felt.

“So, anyway, what do you do all day up here?” Ligur asked. “I’ve been trying to continue the work, but there’s only so much I can do now, without my powers.” 

“Well, hey, smoking’s a good start. Makes the humans pretty cross when you do it right in front of ‘em.” 

“Oh, and--I bought one of those single-serve coffee machines with the plastic cups. Figure if I have it in the house, I can contribute to the old Pacific trash heap and all.” He winked conspiratorially, and Crowley laughed. 

“How demonic of you,” Crowley gushed. “You know, if you ever want someone to show you around, well, like you said, I have been up here a while.” 

Ligur paused for just a moment, and then nodded lightly. “Yeah, I might like that.” 

Fishing the crumpled sandwich receipt out of his pocket, Crowley miracled his phone number on the back and gave it to Ligur. “You do have a phone, right?” 

In response, Ligur showed his mobile, an older style flip phone. “Er, maybe you can show me how to put the number in.” 

Crowley held the device so they could both see it, and paged through the menu until he found the contacts list. There were two numbers: Lila, and one unnamed. Crowley plugged his in and handed it back. He wondered about the other number, but decided it probably wasn’t significant. Could be a pizza place. He didn’t want to sound insufferably nosy, anyway, not when their relation-- their acquaintanceship was so tenuous and fraught. 

“Well, I guess I’ll see you around then.” Ligur gave Crowley a constrained smile, but his eyes were friendly enough. 

Crowley watched him walk out of the shop. Had Ligur’s brown eyes always been so good-humoured? He’d never noticed before. 

\---

The soft orange glow of city lights filtered through the blinds in Ligur’s sitting room windows. It was warm and dim in his flat, the only other light source being the yellowish incandescent bulb above the terrarium. It was time to turn the light off after being on all day, but Ligur took a moment to check the environment for any broken branches, sharp edges, or other hazards. The humidity and temperature gauges were reading comfortably. 

His chameleon was sitting in the cooler area at the bottom, blending in with the green foliage. Ligur sighed. The little being was no more than a pet now, but it had once been part of him, and he was determined to care for it, for the rest of their short, mortal lives. Little more than a month previously, Ligur had woken up naked and alone in a moonlit park to the north of London. He was human, but that fact hadn’t concerned him nearly as much as the realization that his familiar was gone. His head felt empty without its weight and without the psychic link that bound them together, and panic had nearly brought him to tears before he found his chameleon hidden in the grass some distance away. Cradling the newly-mortal animal in his arms, the truth of his situation had washed over him. He had lost his demonic powers. He was alone in a world that was strange and cold. 

Until Lila found him. After Hastur had returned to Hell and reported the events leading to Ligur’s death, she set out for Earth immediately to find Crowley and enact her revenge. To her surprise, she had found her brother alive, and the vengeance plot was put on the back burner. 

Ligur made a mental note to himself to tell Lila she didn’t have to kill Crowley anymore. Not that she could anyway; apparently Crowley was immune to holy water now? Ligur wasn’t as up-to-date on current events in Hell as he had once been.

Flicking off the terrarium light, Ligur got himself ready to sleep. He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the mobile phone cupped in his hands. Throughout the millennia they had known each other, Ligur and Crowley had been, not exactly friends, but at least on generally good terms. Then came the business of the apocalypse, and the circumstances of Ligur’s… demotion. It was Crowley’s fault he was in this mess, cut off from Hell and all he had ever known since the Fall. 

He didn’t need Crowley.

Ligur opened his mobile and dialed the unnamed contact. He let it ring until the automatic voicemail message played, then snapped the phone closed and stuffed in his sock drawer. Nobody home. As usual. 

Maybe Ligur could find some use for Crowley after all. 


	3. Chapter 3

It was several days later that Crowley’s mobile buzzed in his pocket and he answered to hear Ligur’s voice on the other end. 

“So, I heard about this thing called happy hour…?” 

Crowley was hanging upside down on the seat of his couch. His face broke into a wide grin. “You want to go out for drinks? I know the perfect place, this little basement bar, kind of a tropical theme…” 

“Sounds good,” Ligur said. 

“What’s your address? I can pick you up right now.” 

Crowley got Ligur’s information, then in a flash he was starting up the Bentley and heading north to Belsize Park. It was a fairly quick drive that took him right around Regent’s Park, which was starting to look absolutely picturesque with the leaves just beginning to turn red and gold for the autumn season. Crowley knew a little footbridge over the boating lake that simply had the most gorgeous view. Nice place to take a date for a walk. 

It was only coincidence that Aziraphale jumped into his thoughts right then. 

Ligur’s flat was located on a residential street in a long row of similar units. They were clean, white buildings with little gardens out front, very charming, but every parking spot was full up. He stopped the Bentley in the middle of the street and hopped out to knock on Ligur’s door. 

Ligur appeared on the doorstep wearing his black leather jacket again, this time over a maroon jumper and dark blue jeans. They greeted each other a little stiffly; Crowley had never been the best at interpreting Ligur’s generally stoic expressions, and they didn’t talk much as they piled into the Bentley and drove back into Soho. With the windows cranked down, conversation was an ambitious goal anyway, but the crisp air and fresh fallen-leaf scents coming from the park made up for it. 

Exploring London was much more of a pedestrian activity due to the narrow streets and abhorrent lack of parking. The city had been designed for people and horses after all, and these days public transportation sufficed to get city-dwellers where they needed to go. But if anyone wanted to leave London without a car, they had to contend with bus tickets and the hassle of waiting on someone else’s schedule. Crowley very much valued his freedom, and considered the daily annoyance of finding parking to be a fair enough trade. 

Miraculously, though not by Crowley’s doing, there was a garage about a block away from the bar. He parked in a spot as far from other cars as he could get, and led the way down the street which was hemmed in by tall buildings on either side. The narrow one-way street was busy, full of cars passing through, honking at each other like angry geese, and people stopping to examine every little shop and restaurant on their way. 

As they walked, Crowley watched Ligur watching everybody else. His face gave away very little, but his keen eyes captured every detail, the eclectic Soho fashion--including a woman carrying a bald dog in her purse--the fascinating items behind the glass fronts of boutiques, the neon and green signs advertising a ramen shop on the corner. He didn’t know how often Ligur had visited Earth before, and he felt immensely glad that he was the one who got to show him around. 

Crowley held the door open for the former demon and walked in behind him. It was a cozy place decorated with a riot of colours: blue and orange chairs, orange and green geometric patterns on the bar, rustic wood countertops, plants set into wall niches. In one corner there was a small raised area, which Crowley knew served as a stage for live music on nights and weekends. Right now it was set with a couple of low tables, and that was where he sat down with Ligur. They were early yet, so there were only a few other people in the restaurant with them, and their chatter blended in with the music playing from hidden speakers to create a comfortable ambiance. 

Looking at the menu, Crowley realized he had no idea what Ligur liked to drink. The main selections were all rather fruity. He was partial to the tropical sour with banana rum, sour apple Schnapps, and sweet-and-sour mix, but Ligur didn’t seem the type. When the waitress came to take their orders, Crowley asked for his usual and suggested an old-fashioned for Ligur. He also took the opportunity to order the jalapeño-glaze wings, which Crowley adored but never ordered when he was with Aziraphale because the angel didn’t like spicy food. 

To his surprise, Crowley found Ligur easy to talk to. They reminisced about old temptations and gossiped about their fellow demons. Surprisingly, Ligur was more caught-up on the news down below than Crowley, and informed him that while Crowley was on the very top of Hell’s shit list, he didn’t think they wanted to expend any more effort than usual to monitor him. When Ligur asked about the holy water incident, Crowley almost wanted to tell the truth. 

“I’ve learned a trick or two in my time on Earth,” Crowley said smoothly. 

One eyebrow raised in suspicion, Ligur said: “Uh-huh. Did you really ask the hordes of Hell for a rubber duck?” 

Crowley couldn’t help but laugh. Aziraphale was so clever. “Yes, I did. You should have seen their faces. They’ve always been a humourless bunch. So easy to mess with.” 

They sipped their drinks, and the lull in conversation felt more natural than ever. Ligur winced at the harsh flavour of the bourbon, and it occurred to Crowley that Ligur’s new human taste buds probably weren’t used to strong spirits. He should have thought of that. 

“Here, try mine,” Crowley handed over his cocktail, which was an electric blue-green garnished with a pineapple chunk. 

“Mmm, I like this one better. How do humans drink this stuff all the time?”

“You get used to it. Then you can really taste all the different flavours.” Crowley took a drink from the old-fashioned, letting the liquid roll across his tongue for a moment before swallowing. Notes of vanilla, and soft oak, accented with citrus from the bitters and the orange peel. Very sweet. “It’s a bit of an art, actually,” he continued. “Humans will age their drinks for years in barrels so it absorbs the flavours of the wood.”

“I never knew they were so patient.” 

“Some things are worth waiting for,” Crowley said, looking at the ice at the bottom of his glass. 

The sky was already starting to go dark as they left the bar and strolled back to the parking garage. Autumn was coming on quickly, and the nights were getting colder. Soon, the pavement would be rimmed with frost, and exhaust from all the cars would rise up into the air as if the city itself was breathing out. The perfect weather to cuddle up with tea in the back of Zira’s bookshop, Crowley thought absently. He and Ligur walked side by side, and he felt warm and comfortable despite the growing chill. After a short drive back the way they had come, they said goodnight, and Ligur disappeared behind his front door. Crowley was sad to see him go. 

The Redbourn Classics Motor Show (and Village Fete) was a relatively young event planned and run each year by a team of enthusiastic volunteers. It featured food stalls selling everything from BBQ and tacos to kebabs and ramen. There was tea tents, coffee booths, and plenty of beer, as well as activities for kids and families. Of course, the main attraction was the 340 classic cars, tractors, and motorbikes that gathered on the wide green lawn for one day in late-September to compete for best vehicle. This year, Crowley was going to enter with the Bentley, and he was determined to win.

He filled out the ticket form, slipped a cheque into the envelope, and stuffed it in the mail, and it only took a minor miracle to ensure there was a good spot open for him. Waltzing out the front doors of his building, his blood began to thrill with excitement. In a week he would be meeting with scores of other car aficionados showing off their vintage vehicles, and perhaps some of them would be as excited about his Bentley as he was every day. 

Sunlight glinted off the spotless black paint of Crowley’s vehicle where it sat beneath a maple tree at the edge of the car park. It might have made a stunning photograph, if not for the other, dusty modern cars parked next to him. 

The day was so beautiful, all he wanted to do was go for a drive. 

Wind whipped his hair as he took the A40 west to nowhere in particular. Driving helped him clear his thoughts, especially when the city began to fade in his rearview mirror. The open road felt like a call to adventure, just Crowley alone in the center of a great dome of blue sky with rolling hills around him, endless opportunity for excitement, just Crowley alone… 

The Bentley’s radio crackled to life of its own accord and Freddy Mercury's dulcet tones came over the air. 

_ “When I’m not with you _

_ I think of you always _

_ (I miss those long hot summer nights) I miss you _

_ When I’m not with you _

_ Think of me always _

_ Love you, love you” _

“For the love of Lucifer, shut up,” Crowley groaned, thumping the dashboard.

He looked at the empty passenger seat with a frown. Stupid angel. The countryside always felt so new and fresh when he shared it with Aziraphale, but now the farther he drove from London, the plainer it looked. Stupid hills. What was the point of driving over the speed limit if Aziraphale wasn’t around to comment on it? 

At the next exit, Crowley turned around and headed back toward the city, an idea forming in his head. With one hand, he pulled out his mobile and went online, scarcely paying attention to the road. After 93 years, the car should know how to drive without Crowley holding its grease gun, right? He found what he was looking for and completed his purchase, and some time later he arrived back in Soho none the worse for wear.

Rolling to a stop outside Aziraphale’s bookshop, Crowley revved the engine once before turning the key and sliding out onto the sidewalk. The sign said ‘open’, not that Crowley ever paid any attention. The door never stayed locked for Crowley. 

He glared at a young man who was pawing through one of Zira’s shelves, and strode straight through to the back, where he found Aziraphale sitting at his desk talking on the telephone. 

“So, anyway, dear boy, call me back when you get this I suppose. Or, come visit. You know where to find me. At my bookshop, I mean. Uh. Righty-O!” 

Crowley sidled up behind him. “Who are you talking to?” 

“Oh, good Lord!” Aziraphale nearly jumped out of his skin. Crowley could see the pale white-gold shimmer in the air where his wings wanted to manifest. “Crowley! Don’t sneak up on me like that; I thought you might have been Gabriel.” 

“Have you been getting any trouble from up above?” He leaned against Aziraphale’s desk, gazing down at his friend, who was wearing his usual tan waistcoat and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The top buttons were undone. He couldn’t help glancing at the triangle of exposed brown skin beneath his throat where his bowtie was absent. 

“Not so much, no,” Aziraphale explained cagily. He was a terrible liar, but Crowley decided not to press him. “I’ve been keeping my head down, trying to stay busy, you know. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, and all.” 

Crowley snorted. “If you say so, Angel.” 

Taking a moment to tidy some papers on his desk, Aziraphale stood up and led Crowley to the little kitchenette-slash-reading area against the very back wall. Crowley flopped down on the couch while Aziraphale put the kettle on, watching for the little disapproving frown the angel always wore when Crowley put his boots on the furniture. He wasn’t disappointed. 

“I was calling you, actually,” Aziraphale was saying. “Though I suppose I can just tell you now you’re here.”

“Oh? Try my mobile first next time, I usually have it on me. Um. There’s something I wanted to tell you, too.” Why did Crowley suddenly feel nervous? He had invited Aziraphale out hundreds of times before. 

Setting down two mugs of tea on the corkboard coasters, Aziraphale settled into an armchair across from Crowley. “You go first then.” 

Crowley sat up. “Well, next week there’s this car show, all vintage cars, you know, it’s like a little fair with booths and stuff, it’s just for one day, and well, I went last year and it was excellent, so this year I decided to enter.” 

Aziraphale waited for Crowley to continue.

“With the Bentley, I mean. And there’s a competition too, you’re supposed to wear historic clothes that match the year of your car, and you can win an award for best car and best costume. So, it’s on Saturday. Oh right, I suppose I should mention I bought you a ticket. So you can come with me.” Crowley sipped his tea too fast and coughed as it went down his trachea. 

“Saturday, you said?” Aziraphale frowned. “Well, the thing is, actually, they’re doing Hamlet at the Barbican, and well, I already got tickets. It’s the last showing, and I was really lucky to get two seats together. Er, maybe I should have asked you first, but I figured they would sell out quickly.” 

Hamlet? Crowley scratched his chin, affection warring with frustration. On one hand, he was glad Aziraphale had thought to invite him to the theatre; on the other hand, Hamlet? That had always been Aziraphale’s favourite; Crowley only sat through it to keep his friend company. Besides, he really wanted to show off the Bentley… 

They never seemed to be on the same wavelength these days. 

Before, it had been as easy as knocking on the bookshop door and collecting the angel to go wherever they decided to go, but since the events of Armageddon, they had kept missing each other.

“Maybe we should just do our own thing, and tell each other about it later?” Aziraphale suggested. 

Swallowing past a wave of bitterness, Crowley nodded. 

They finished their tea and caught each other up on things since they had seen each other last. Crowley didn’t have much to tell, except for running into Ligur, and he wasn’t ready to explain that whole situation to Aziraphale yet. It wasn’t that he wanted to keep a secret, it was just that… Well, he didn’t know, really. Guilt blistered like a hot coal in his belly. 

They talked about Warlock, and how they both missed him, and laughed about the disastrous garden party. 

“Sometimes, I can still smell whipped cream on my clothes,” Aziraphale admitted. 

To Crowley’s chagrin, Aziraphale pulled out a deck of cards and said he’d been practicing. 

“Angel, no,” Crowley said with a laugh. 

“Just pick a card, my dear.” 

Six of spades. Aziraphale put it on top of the deck, then had Crowley halve the deck and put the bottom half on top. He flipped over the cards one by one, until at one point he stopped, and said, “My highly-attuned psychic intuition is telling me that the next card is in fact, your card.” He uncovered… the six of spades. 

“Congratulations, Angel,” Crowley said, leaning forward to clap Aziraphale on the shoulder. He smiled that shy little smile that always warmed Crowley’s heart. 

After they said their goodbyes, Crowley made his way home and tried not to let disappointment tarnish his excitement over the car show. It had been pretty last minute, and he didn’t expect Aziraphale to keep his calendar completely open to attend to Crowley’s every whim… right? Still. Now he had an extra ticket, and an open seat in the Bentley. Who else could he possibly invite? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The actual Redbourn Classics Motor Show is in early September. Forgive me for interfering so frivolously with the timeline. :)


	4. Chapter 4

The sun rose over a perfect autumn day. A light, crisp breeze blew the scent of fallen leaves from the parks, perfuming the city in the same way that Febreeze perfumes dirty laundry; it mixed with the fumes instead of covering them up. Dashed with clouds, the sky was a creamy pink and gold toward the horizon and darkened to a deep celestial blue far above. It made Crowley feel homesick, though for where, he wasn’t entirely sure. 

Making a quick detour, Crowley stopped by a trendy little nook and picked up a pair of breakfast rolls before heading to Ligur’s flat. Then, eating as they drove, they made their way north to the little village of Redbourn. The car show was held on the common in the center of town, a gorgeous area of meadow and moorland, currently host to several hundred people and their vintage cars in the early frenzy of setting up for the show. He steered toward the registration area. Crowley brought up the ticket on his phone and showed it to a volunteer, who handed him a window card and pointed him across the field to his spot. Bumping over the grass as carefully as he could, he backed between two wooden stakes next to a 1960 MG MGA convertible, white, and with, Crowley peered inside, a dark red leather interior and walnut trim. Ligur whistled appreciatively. 

Crowley was nearly bursting with excitement as he fussed over his and Ligur’s outfits one last time. Crowley was wearing a 1930s brown herringbone sport jacket over a burgundy vest and tan trousers. He had on his usual sunglasses and carried a black umbrella over his forearm, though there was no chance of rain. Ligur was looking impeccable in a grey vest with cream trousers and an intriguing tie with pale red diagonal stripes of varying thickness. He had his black jacket slung casually over one shoulder. 

With half an hour remaining before the show opened to the public, Crowley and Ligur wandered around, watching vendors finish setting up their stalls and light their barbecues. They chatted with other car owners, and Crowley found himself enamored with a black ‘56 Bentley S1 convertible, interior brown (cognac leather, he was informed). The owner let Crowley sit behind the wheel after he promised to show him his Bentley in return. 

As they walked back to Crowley’s vehicle, Ligur elbowed him. “I don’t know if you were more interested in the car or the man.” 

“Shut it,” he grumbled good-naturedly. 

People started piling in right around noon, the smell of cooking meat and fried food enticing passers-by. Crowley had never had more fun talking about his car. Scores of other enthusiasts walked by throughout the day, admiring the sleek two-tone coupe 3.5-litre, asking questions about the engine, its horsepower, and what he’d done to restore it. He couldn’t exactly tell people he’d had it from new, so he said it had been his father’s car, which he had kept in mint condition all his life. 

“I promised him on his deathbed that I would care for this car like my own child,” Crowley said to a young couple who listened politely, a bit too intimidated by his exuberance to walk away. He wished he could take off his sunglasses, because the little tear he summoned in the corner of his eye was a theatrical masterpiece. 

Ligur chuckled after they hurried off. “You laid that on with a trowel.” 

As the day went on, Crowley encountered a problem he hadn’t anticipated. Many people who approached assumed the car was Ligur’s, and he was a bit jealous at first, but then he began to enjoy hearing Ligur spin fantastic tales about the Bentley. 

“It’s your outfits,” Crowley’s neighbor with the MG said, seated on a lawn chair in front of her car and eating an ice cream. 

“What?” he wandered over, leaving Ligur to chat with another bystander who had assumed Ligur was the owner. 

She pointed her cone at Ligur. “Your friend matches your car, with the grey and all.” 

Crowley frowned, then laughed. “Guess I should have thought of that.” 

He walked off to visit the food stalls and watch the band play under their awning on the other side of the field, and when he came back with ice cream cones for himself and Ligur, the man with the ‘56 Bentley was waiting for him. Ligur took the proffered treat and made himself scarce, with a smirk aimed at Crowley behind the other man’s back. 

“You know, they used one of these in a James Bond film,  _ From Russia with Love. _ I think it was a ‘35, though.” He had a nice voice with an accent Crowley couldn’t quite place. Possibly Nigerian? He was also wearing historic British clothing (though Crowley would hardly call the 1950s historic), a blue knit shirt tucked into grey slacks.

“Did they?” Crowley’s mouth felt dry, and he decided there was just no elegant way to eat an ice cream cone. “I’ve never seen that one.”

“Good film. I always loved James Bond when I was a kid.”

“I’m Anthony,” Crowley said. Had he ever seen a James Bond film? He couldn’t remember at the moment. 

“Chimezie. So, tell me about your car.” 

Crowley did so, sticking as close to the truth as possible. He went over the basic specs, told where he (his father) had purchased it, and recounted some of his favourite memories. Like any car enthusiast worth his salt, Crowley pulled out his mobile and showed off his album of glamour shots, which nobody had appreciated up ‘til now. Crowley finished his ice cream while Chimezie looked in the engine bay, and wiped his hands on a crumpled handkerchief that he miraculously found in his pocket. 

They discussed the Rolls-Royce era of Bentley Motors and lamented the shortcomings of modern vehicles.

“Everything’s all hybrid and compact these days, there’s just no style,” Crowley said, leaning on his umbrella. 

Chimezie nodded. He was sitting in the passenger’s seat, admiring the interior. “You have to admit though, Tesla’s been coming up with some fantastic designs.” 

“Ehhh, they all look the same. Sleek and flashy, no personality.” 

“Well, it’s all about power and performance, anyway. I love the classics, but they can’t match the newer models for speed and attitude.”

“Tell that to the Corvette L88.” 

“Heh. Yeah, you might be right about that one.” Chimezie stepped out of the car. “I should get back to my spot; I think the judges are about to start making rounds.” 

“Oh, right,” Crowley said. “Well. Er, good luck.” 

With a soft smile, he left. Crowley leaned against the wheel well and watched Chimezie until he disappeared into the crowd. He had forgotten that there was a competition. 

“You’re letting that one walk away?” came the voice of the woman with the MG. Had she been watching like a spectator this whole time? 

“Mind your business,” Crowley snarked, wiping off an invisible smudge on the windscreen. 

“Ohhh, I get it now. I see you. You’re already pining for someone else, aren’t you?” 

Crowley said nothing, looking around in vain for Ligur to come rescue him from this outrageous conversation. 

“Can I give you some free advice?” 

“Not interested.” 

Pulling an apple out of her purse, she crunched. Quite obnoxiously, in Crowley’s opinion. With a vague gesture, she continued, “You need to ask him out yesterday. I don’t know your story, but you’ve already waited too long, I can tell you that. Listen, I was in love with my lady for years before I finally plucked up the courage to ask, and it all worked out. We’ve been married for almost a year; this month’s our anniversary.” 

Several responses ran through Crowley’s mind.  _ I didn’t realize I was speaking to the lesbian fairy of unsolicited opinions. What makes you think there’s anyone I want to ask out in the first place? _ Then he thought of soft white wings sheltering him from the rain, and wondered what she would think about six thousand years. Finally, he settled on a neutral, “Congrats.” 

“You poor boy,” she said with a smirk. 

Luckily for Crowley, a set of volunteer judges stopped by just then and busied his nosy neighbor with questions about her vehicle. He walked around his Bentley and glared at the luggage rack with tartan straps that he had left on since before the Apocalypse. It was stupid, but he didn’t want to take it off yet. 

After his turn under the judges’ scrutiny, Crowley went to collect Ligur, who was making himself popular in the beer tent, and together they went to hear the announcement of the winners. The trophy went to a ‘39 BMW 327, two-tone green coupé style. Crowley and Ligur got an honorable mention for the authenticity of their costumes, but the prize went to a woman wearing a light blue 1920s floral tea dress with a matching beret. 

“It doesn’t make sense,” Crowley complained later. “That was clearly a summer dress. It’s autumn. And she didn’t even have gloves, and her shoes were all wrong.” 

They were driving back into London. After waiting in line for ages to get out of the park, it felt good to be moving again. “I think you’re the only one who remembers the fashion trends of the twenties, old man,” Ligur teased. “Hey, is this yours?” 

Crowley looked aside and saw Ligur was holding up a huge primary feather, a sort of pink-brown nightingale colour. “Not mine,” he said. 

“Maybe your angel friend, then?”

“Nah, not his colour.” 

Ligur stowed it safely in the glove box before it could blow away, and he and Crowley shared a mystified glance. 

It was early evening by the time they arrived at Ligur’s flat, and with the sun sinking low, the air was becoming genuinely chilly. Crowley parked on the street out front and went up with Ligur on the promise of tea and biscuits. Inside, the flat was beautiful and modern. White oak flooring, arranged in a chevron pattern, complimented the dark cabinets and furniture. The walls were white, except the back wall facing the window, which was painted a light grey. It was an open floor plan, making the small space seem huge and inviting. 

Crowley wondered if the apartment had come furnished or if Ligur had an eye for interior design. The minimalist style and neutral colour scheme resonated with him.

Of course, the centerpiece of the room was the terrarium standing on an elegant black cabinet against one of the walls. It was a splash of gorgeous deep green and warm light, and Crowley made a beeline to look at the reptile dozing inside. A big green lizard, about the size of Crowley’s forearm, looked back at him. Instinctively, Crowley reached out with his demonic senses and got a taste of the creature’s soul. It was mortal, and fragile, with just the slightest lingering touch of magic that it could no longer use. 

“Hey, Ligur, is this…?” he trailed off. It was just a chameleon. 

“Yep.” Ligur was busy in the kitchen, so Crowley couldn’t see his face, but his voice sounded tight. 

“You know, I never really saw the appeal of the whole familiar thing. Seems like a lot of work, feeding it, teaching it spells and whatnot. And I never liked the idea of animals crawling ‘round on my head. Maybe a rat would have been okay, one of those little clean ones with pink noses you get at the pet store. Or a garden snake.” He was rambling. 

Ligur went quiet, and Crowley sensed the mood change rapidly. He adjusted his sunglasses, looking at the paintings on the walls, trying to pretend the silence was comfortable.

There was that too-casual voice again, like someone carrying an overly full glass of water and was afraid to breathe too hard, in case it spilled over. “Crowley, how did you do the holy water trick, really?”

Crowley froze. With a roguish inflection, he said, “A magician never reveals his secrets.” 

“Come on, mate. I’m going crazy not knowing.” Ligur sounded distant, as if he were facing away from Crowley. Crowley didn’t turn around to look.

“Well, it’s like I said before, I learned some tricks in my time on Earth.” He could never tell; he could never put Aziraphale in danger. 

“It was your angel friend, wasn’t it? He protected you somehow.”

Crowley’s blood ran cold. Could he trust Ligur? Not with Aziraphale’s life at stake… “Ha. Good guess. Way off the mark though.” Still pretending this was a neutral conversation. 

Stalking towards him from the kitchen, Ligur said in a low voice, “Stop bullshitting me! I have to know, Crowley. You need to tell me.” No more pretense. 

“Why does it matter?” Bile rose in Crowley’s throat.

“Because you survived and I didn’t!” 

Crowley’s breath hitched in his throat. He felt himself burning under Ligur’s eyes, pierced through to the soul. He knew he deserved Ligur’s anger; no matter the circumstances, Crowley had been the one who hurt another person, someone who had done nothing to him. The weight of Ligur’s accusation threatened to suffocate him.  _ You survived and I didn’t _ . He walked over to the couch and dropped down before his legs gave out, and buried his face in his hands.

“No, look at me,” Ligur said, coming to stand in front of Crowley. “I have to know, because maybe there’s a chance to undo it. My life is over, Crowley, this is my last hope.” 

Crowley looked up at Ligur. Normally so steadfast, indomitable, the former demon now looked lost. With a broken voice, Crowley explained what had happened, how he and Aziraphale had swapped faces, risking their lives to protect each other. 

“It was the first time I’d set foot upstairs since the Fall. You know what I’ve learned, here on Earth? There’s no difference between us and the angels. They claim they’re out to do good but they kill anyone who disagrees, and we’re not any better, are we? Our lot’d sell each other out for a penny. There’s no loyalty, we’re all fighting each other as much as we’re fighting the other side.” 

“From where I’m standing,” Ligur said slowly, “you’re the one who has no loyalty. You’ve spent so many thousands of years cavorting with your angel here on Earth, thinking you’re so much better than the rest of us, as if you’re the only one who didn’t want to Fall. Maybe if you’d ever bothered taking your head out of your arse, you would have seen us, the demons who might have been your friends.” 

“You don’t understand,” Crowley protested. “I only did what I did to save the world. It doesn’t need to end, there doesn’t need to be an Apocalypse or a war between Heaven and Hell, because we’re all the same anyway! Beelzebub, and Dagon, and the others, they don’t get it.”

Ligur shook his head, a muscle flexing in his jaw. “No, you don’t get it, Crowley, because you’re never there to see it. Beelzebub and Dagon can fuck off. The rest of us, the Horde, we don’t just run around with our eyes closed quoting the doctrine of Lucifer. We don’t want to fight some shitty war, that’s all management’s problem to worry about.”

_ What? _ Crowley didn’t know what to say. “But, you and Hastur…”

“Honestly, maybe if you had bothered to talk to us, we might have helped you.” 

The events of the last eleven years seemed to invert, and Crowley felt as if he were being tossed by a hurricane. How could he have missed so much? He had always thought of himself as between Heaven and Hell, below the intolerable fanaticism of the angels and above the degradation of his fellow demons. But he’d bought into the lies as much as any other. He’d eaten up the propaganda like a good little soldier, but he had the unique benefit of absorbing imperial dogma from both sides. His own voice seemed to echo forward in time,  _ “We’re on our own side,” _ mocking him.

“I’m such an idiot.” What else was there to say? Maybe the past six thousand years could have been completely different.  _ I just hung around the wrong people. _ In the garden, he’d been so surprised when the angel he spoke to turned out to be mellow, and kind, if a little prone to vomiting gospel. Had he ever given anyone else that same chance? “Ligur, what can I do? I’m so, so sorry.” 

Framed by the living room window, Ligur cut a dark silhouette against the fading sunlight. “I don’t know. You did this to me, and I lost everything. You fix it.” 

“I will, Ligur, I swear to God I will. I won’t stop until I figure out a way to make it better.”  _ Or I’ll suffocate under my own shame.  _

Ligur gave him a long look, unreadable, and finally nodded. 

The full moon rose in the night sky as Crowley drove home, like a spotlight from Heaven, watching him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the book, Crowley has a 1926 Bentley. In the show, they used a '33. I'm going with the '33.


	5. Chapter 5

Every night brought new nightmares to Crowley’s subconscious. Now, in addition to the usual terrors of Hellhounds and steely knives, he was haunted by images of Ligur wasting away, his mortal body crippled by age and decay. 

_ Crowley’s fault, Crowley’s fault…  _ The wall clock ticked in a rhythm that reminded him how feeble a human life was, how short. Throughout Crowley’s entire existence, he had managed to keep his hands clean of murder, and now the stain was on his soul and he couldn’t wash it out. He felt sick, and shaky, and so dreadfully alone.

Giving up on sleep, Crowley went to sit in his plant room. He kept the lights off, not because he was comforted by the darkness, but because he didn’t want to catch a glimpse of himself reflected in the window. As always, being surrounded by his garden put his mind at ease. The fresh scents of flowers drifted over him, carried by the breeze from the open window. His new African violet was growing tremendously, and he was proud, though he refused to say it out loud. Didn’t want his plants getting complacent. 

He poked the soil of his dwarf lemon tree, testing the dryness. His finger sunk into the dirt, which was an acceptable level of cool-damp, and he felt grounded, as if he could absorb strength from the Earth in the same way that roots did. What did he have to fear from capricious Heaven, when the Earth was quiet and eternal? 

There had to be a way to fix his mistake, to make amends to Ligur. Crowley wondered if there was any forbidden fruit leftover from Eden; maybe feeding one to Ligur would set him back on the path to demonhood. Or maybe if Crowley helped him commit enough sins, then Satan would grant him the abilities of a full fledged demon again. Now, there was an idea--ask Satan. But Crowley thought it might be smart to gather more information first.

Closing his eyes, he leaned against the wall and breathed in the clean air, heavy with the scent of flowers and healthy soil. He could name every one of his plants by smell, but there was one--he flicked out his tongue to get a better taste--that was out of place. In the corner was a wooden stepladder with various small pots on the rungs, and he went over and knelt in front of it. The new smell, tangy and piney, was rosemary. Anathema had given it to him as a present from her own garden in Tadfield after they’d prevented Armageddon. 

Crowley wasn’t much of a chef, but he thought when the herb got bigger, he could give some to Aziraphale and they could cook together. His heart warmed at the thought. Although Aziraphale had been hard to get ahold of the past few weeks, there was no way he would say no to fresh herbs and homemade dinner. 

Then he noticed one stem had browning needles, and he curled his lip at such an offensive sight. 

“What do you think you’re doing? Did I give you leave to die?” He injected as much venom into his voice as he could muster. “You’re setting a bad example for the rest of this lot.” 

Part of him wanted to scoop the plant out of the pot and boil it ‘til it turned to soup--” _ teach you to go all brown on me” _ \--but he would feel rotten about destroying a gift that had been given in friendship. 

Anathema never had to know… 

But then he wouldn’t have herbs to bring Aziraphale, and he clung to any excuse to visit the angel. 

_ Ah, fuck it. _ Crowley clipped the browned stem and held it up in the middle of the room for all the plants to see. “Don’t you get any ideas now, because you know what happens when you don’t live up to my expectations.” 

He went into the kitchen and stuffed the sprig down the garbage disposal, which whirred like a buzzsaw in the quiet of the night. The flat filled with the aroma of rosemary. 

Sleep was elusive, but he managed to nod off for a few hours, at least.

In the morning, Crowley rolled out of bed, buttered a croissant, opened up his laptop, and began to research. He had managed to come up with the tenuous beginnings of a plan. The goal, he supposed, was to undo the harm he had done by finding a way to restore Ligur’s demonic powers, and the logical place to start was, he figured, the Holy Book itself. The Bible was the most trustworthy source containing information about angels and demons, right? Crowley didn’t actually know; he’d never read it, but it sounded like something Aziraphale would suggest. 

He had briefly considered driving over to Aziraphale’s shop to peruse a copy of the book in person, but he didn’t like the way holy texts made his fingers burn, so Google would have to suffice for now. And if he was being honest with himself, he still didn’t want to tell the angel what had happened, what he had done to Ligur. It was his fault, his responsibility, and he wasn’t going to go hide under Aziraphale’s wings. Not this time.

Pages and pages of websites and PDFs revealed very little of interest. The Hebrew Bible in general had very little to say about demons, but the “Curses of Belial” segment from the Dead Sea Scrolls caught Crowley’s eye. He paged through the highlights, which read like a blow-by-blow account of said demon’s activities from two thousand years ago. He already knew all this, and besides, it wasn’t helpful. 

The Book of Enoch claimed demons were the corrupt spirits of giants that had been born in sin through the mating of an angel with a human. ... _ What? _ Crowley had to admit that he didn’t know what happened when angels and humans… ahem… but he’d never seen any giants walking around. Again, irrelevant. He knew where demons came from originally ( _ “Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky; With hideous ruin and combustion, down to bottomless perdition, there to dwell” _ ); he needed to know how to restore a demon. 

When a Google search for “can a human become a demon” led him down a dark tangent to the demonkin corner of the internet, Crowley shut his laptop and let his head droop onto the kitchen table. How far would he go to make amends? Well. He’d made a promise. And anyway, he’d probably be killed if he didn’t come through, by Lila or Hastur or even Ligur himself. 

Crowley dialed the number to Aziraphale’s shop, but got his answerphone. 

“Hey, Angel. Erm. If you’re there, please pick up, I could use some help. I… Well the long and short of it is that I hurt someone, and I’m doing everything I can to make it up to him. But it’s tricky. And well, I wasn’t going to ask you at first, because you’ve been so busy, but… I need you.” Crowley paused with the phone in his hand, staring blankly out the window. “There’s some old friends I’m going to try to contact. So, er, I’m going back to Hell. Bye.” 

It was hot and humid and  _ hot,  _ and the building had that old-parking-garage smell of damp concrete and petrol. A crumbling brick number overgrown with vines, it sat on the near edge of the Asphodel Meadows and faced the gates of Pandemonium. Crowley had always thought it looked like a hall from any university that was old enough to be respectable, except for the little matter of the impossibly enormous interior. Like an inverted skyscraper, Hell’s secondary campus started with a dingy lobby on the ground floor and went deep underground, though no one seemed to know just how far it went. The lobby was empty. Crowley noticed a placard on the front desk, which read, “Out to lunch! Back shortly!” It was covered in dust and spiderwebs. 

He much preferred the other building, the one they shared with Heaven. 

Unlike the beautiful, functional architecture of London, the elevators in Hell were perpetually broken. So Crowley slogged down the stairwell, knees aching, until he reached the thirteenth floor. 

Thirteen was prime real estate as far as Crowley was concerned. It was (comparatively) close to the surface, meaning it wasn’t as swelteringly hot as the lower levels, and the main floor of the office was an open plan which featured wide, spacious desks, an assortment of file cabinets and chalkboards, and a coffee machine. He had never spent much time at the office, and he had no desire to visit his old desk down on twenty-seven, which he had shared with a gloomy sort of demon named Morazolyl. 

He hesitated in the stairwell. No one had seen him yet, and it was very possible that he would be killed the minute he stepped through that door. But did he want to live the rest of his life in fear? Part of him, a deep, desperate part, thought  _ yes.  _ But he had been running away for all his life. Maybe it was time to be brave.  _ Ehhh…  _

With a fortifying breath of fetid air, he waltzed out of the stairwell and onto floor thirteen. The bullpen was behind a fortified glass wall, and Crowley got a good look in to see what he was dealing with. There were twenty or so desks arranged in pairs and triads throughout the room, all decorated with antique desk lamps and stacks of parchment. It must have been a weekend, because Crowley could only count a handful of individuals seated at their desks, one of them playing rubbish bin basketball.  _ Perks of being upper management _ . He pushed his sunglasses up his nose before entering through the glass door, the final barricade between him and the hostile Horde. 

In his most imperious voice, he announced, “I’m looking for the demon Lila, is she in today?”

Five pairs of eyes watched him like a lion, astonished that the mouse had come to sit between its great taloned paws. Sweat dripped down Crowley’s back. 

One demon, pale skinned and red-eyed, with a large iridescent dragonfly perched atop their head, pointed to one of the private offices in the back corner of the room. Crowley walked past the small group in tense silence, feeling like prey, more terrified than he’d ever been before. No, that wasn’t right. The bookshop fire in which he’d lost Aziraphale was the most terrified he’d felt, but this was a close second. Here he was, a traitor to Hell, willingly walking back in. 

He knocked on Lila’s door, and it creaked open. There was no light inside, giving it the eerie appearance of a gaping cavern maw. He might step through and find there was no floor, sending him plummeting into the Pit, or he might walk face-first into a wall of spikes or some other horrible trap. Putting on an air of casualness that he certainly didn’t feel, Crowley turned and waved to the others as he stepped backwards into that dark abyss only to find…

...a regular old office. Once inside, there was suddenly light to see by, though the main room was no longer visible. The doorway remained black and impenetrable, and there were no windows. It was too quiet.

Behind a large oak desk sat a woman who must be Lila, sister to Ligur, and Duchess of Hell. She had dark brown skin and wore a green headwrap with gold embroidery. Her familiar, a huge, fluffy fruit bat, clung to her shoulder. Crowley would have thought it cute, except for the fact that it was staring at him unblinkingly, as if it wanted to bite a chunk out of his flesh. Lila had the same expression.

“You dare to walk these halls, parading yourself in front of all those whom you betrayed?” She steepled her fingers in front of her. 

Crowley decided a little formality was warranted. “My Lady, I have come to beg your forgiveness, and I humbly request your aid in righting the wrong I have done to your brother.” 

Her eyebrows pinched together, an almost imperceptible look of surprise. “You wish to… help Ligur?” 

Crowley nodded. 

“You’re not here to ask for a second chance to restart the Apocalypse?” 

“I nearly got myself killed trying to stop it, why would I want to go through that again?” 

Through narrowed eyes, Lila gave Crowley an appraising look. “In your circumvention of our great plans, you lied to us consistently, disobeyed orders, and attacked two of your fellow demons. You used the weapon of the Enemy and stripped a Duke of his demonic powers, rendering him mortal. And now you wish to… what exactly? How do you propose to fix the mess you’ve created?”

Ah. That was the little snag Crowley hadn’t quite worked out yet. “I’m searching for a way to restore Ligur, but erm, it’s early stages yet. I need your help, because I’m not exactly popular in Hell right now, and I need to get an audience with Satan.” 

If they were on Earth, they might have heard crickets chirping. Lila ran a finger down the soft furry back of her familiar, with an expression Crowley couldn’t read. This had to work. Satan was almost as powerful as God, if anyone could restore a fallen demon, or create one from a human soul, it would be him. Right? 

“Do you think I haven’t already asked?” Her voice was like ice. “The first thing I did after I found out what had happened was implore our Lord to save him. He said that nothing could be done.” 

Crowley met her gaze, her brown eyes brittle as gemstones. 

“I don’t think he cared enough,” she added, then, “I should kill you for what you did.” 

Feeling shaky and miserable, Crowley placed his sunglasses on the desk between them. “I’ve made so many mistakes in my life, but I’m trying to fix one of them now. I promise you, I will.” 

“Don’t think that Satan will have mercy just because you’ve come here, supplicant. You need a new plan. A better one.” 

“Will you help?” Crowley held his breath. 

She seemed to debate internally for a moment. “I’ll be in touch.” Her voice was soft like a whisper of wind through fields of barley. “Now get out, before the hounds catch your scent.” She turned and carried her bat over to a perch in the corner. Crowley, dismissed, wasted no time in exiting the way he had come, back through the stygian doorway, past the crowd of demons who continued to watch him the way vultures watch a dying mule in the desert, and into the stairwell. 

He looked up the thirteen flights of stairs, legs already aching at the prospect. Too bad it wasn’t wide enough for wings. Still, he made it out in record time, half expecting the sharp pain of a blade between the ribs as some demon took their rightful vengeance. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was escaping rather than merely leaving. 

_ “‘I’m going back to Hell, bye?!?’” _

For the first time in, maybe ever, Crowley heard Aziraphale’s voice shake with genuine rage. He sat meekly on his own couch, watching the angel pace up and down Crowley’s sitting room. 

“Count yourself lucky you got back when you did, because within the hour I would have stormed the Gates myself, sword in hand.” The air seemed to shiver around Aziraphale where his true celestial form threatened to break through. His eyes burned white with angelic fury, and Crowley had no trouble picturing Aziraphale the Warrior, leading a platoon against the armies of Hell. 

“Crowley, after everything we went through to get Heaven and Hell off our backs, everything we risked, you just stroll back in?” 

“There was no other option!” Crowley defended himself, most unwisely.

“You could have waited half an hour for me to call you back!” 

That… might have been logical, Crowley conceded, despite his determination to undertake this trial on his own. Now that Aziraphale was here in front of him, looking all avenging angel, Crowley started to wonder why he hadn’t just run to him in the first place. He needed someone on his side. 

“Angel, let me explain.” Crowley picked at his fingernails. Either Aziraphale would be disgusted by the way Crowley had hurt another of God’s creatures--for even demons were God’s creations--or he would rejoice in the vanquishing of a foe, the holy cleansing of a corrupted soul. Crowley didn’t know which would be worse. 

“It was after the Hellhound was released, and they started to suspect we’d gotten the wrong Antichrist. Look, would you just sit down?”

“No.” 

“Ergh. Well, Hastur and Ligur--old associates of mine--figured it out, and they came after me. I… I poured holy water on Ligur. It sort of melted him.” The memories flooded back to haunt him, the smell of burnt flesh turning to putrid liquid, Hastur’s screams. 

Aziraphale covered his mouth with his hands, and for once, Crowley couldn’t parse his expression. Some of the righteous anger dispersed, however, leaving the room strangely airless. 

“Angel…?” He hated the way his voice sounded, hesitant like a whisper. 

“Oh, Crowley, I am so sorry. This is my fault.” Aziraphale sat on the couch at Crowley’s side. His lips were drawn tight.

“No, I asked you for it. I wanted it as insurance, because I knew Hell wouldn’t approve of... any of this. But I’m the one who chose to use it, Angel, not you.” He hadn’t considered this, but now it seemed obvious that Aziraphale would blame himself. He had fought Crowley about the holy water for years, they hadn’t spoken to each other for decades because Aziraphale had refused him. Now, with a bitter taste in his mouth, Crowley knew Aziraphale was right. 

Gently, Aziraphale took off Crowley’s sunglasses and gazed at him. Crowley wondered what he saw there. His remorse, his shame? 

“There’s more,” Crowley said, unable to meet Aziraphale’s eyes for long. “Ligur survived. He came back, mortal. He’s got a flat and everything and we… I ran into him a few weeks ago and we started talking.” 

“Oh, well, then this is good, right? You didn’t kill him.” 

Crowley shrugged helplessly. “I don’t think so. He’s lived six thousand years as a demon, and I stripped him of his powers. Mortal lives are so short, it’s just a… just a death put off for a bit.” 

A warm hand gripped his shoulder, and Crowley felt as if he might weep. He didn’t deserve Aziraphale’s comfort. 

“I promised him that I would fix it. That’s why I had to go back to Hell, I thought if I talked to Satan, maybe he could give Ligur’s power back.”

The angel’s voice wrapped Crowley like a blanket. “Did you talk to him?” 

“No. I met the demon Lila--Ligur’s sister--and she said she already tried, and he couldn’t do it. Or wouldn’t, I don’t know, but either way, there’s no help from down below.” 

More than anything, Crowley wanted to bury himself in Aziraphale’s arms and banish the miserable, twisted feeling in his heart. In his Angel, there was safety from the hostile swirling winds that swept between Heaven and Hell. Aziraphale was a being of love, after all. 

But how could an angel love a demon? Crowley wasn’t entirely sure when love had come into the equation. Perhaps gradually, over the years, it had become such a subtle part of him that he hadn’t even noticed. It was wrong, dangerous for a whole host of reasons, but it was undeniable. He loved Aziraphale. 

But he was so, so afraid of getting it wrong, of pushing too hard, of pushing the angel away. And yet, even when they had fought, Aziraphale had always come back, reaching out to him throughout the millennia, protecting him from the wrath of Hell, and what was that if not love? 

_ You go too fast for me Crowley…  _

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose, swallowing back the tide of feelings he didn’t know how to sort out. Then Aziraphale rubbed his back, like sweet torture, and he fought to keep his composure. The woman at the car show had seen the longing in his heart; if it was that obvious, why couldn’t Aziraphale feel it too? Crowley hung his sunglasses on his shirt, steeling his resolve. He had to tell him. 

“I might have an idea,” Aziraphale said, interrupting Crowley’s inner monologue. “There’s something I’ve been working on since the Apocalypse, and well, perhaps it can help your friend too.” 

“Hmm?” 

“A while ago, I came across an old manuscript, which I believe holds the key to finding… something that was lost.” 

“Stop being so cryptic, Angel. Spit it out.”

Aziraphale took a breath. “I think I can find the missing Archangels.” 

It was so out of left field, it took a minute to sink in. “What? ...What?” Crowley leaned away from Aziraphale, searching his face to see if he was serious. “Angel… what?” He had a thousand questions, primary being,  _ what the fuck? _

“Listen, Crowley. They’re the most powerful beings in this universe, other than God Herself. I’ve been tracking them down because I think they can fix the rift between Heaven and Earth! They love humanity, so they can convince the others to protect them, instead of bringing about Doomsday all over again. Maybe they can heal Ligur, too. Crowley, don’t you see?” 

Struggling to wrap his head around this abrupt turn in the conversation, Crowley said, “But nobody’s seen them in six thousand years. They disappeared right after the Revolution, didn’t they?”

“Yes, but I have a key to their locations, one of them, at least.” 

“Which one, then?”

“Er…”

“Aziraphale, do you even remember their names?”

“Yes, of course I do. Raphael, Barachiel… erm, Ramiel and Sarakiel.”

“No, there was Anael, and Zadkiel…”

“No, Anael was Uriel’s old name.” 

Crowley stood up, tense and frustrated. He had let himself relax for a moment, thinking that he could possibly broach the topic of his...demonic…affections toward Aziraphale, and now he’d been thrown a complete curveball. “Look, this is pointless. They’re not going to help you, even if you can find them, even if they’re still around. Why are you wasting your time searching for ghosts?” 

Is this what had kept Aziraphale so busy since the Apocalypse? While Crowley had resorted to sleeping away the days out of boredom, Aziraphale had been seeking out the company of angels. Again. “Have you learned nothing?” Crowley spat.

“This is important,” the angel said, and Crowley tried to ignore the hurt in his voice. 

“They don’t care about you, damn it! Aziraphale, they tried to destroy the Earth because of their grudge against my side, they tried to have you executed, and you’re still running back to them?” He paced the living room and stopped suddenly at the far wall, struck by the complete role-reversal this conversation had taken. Hadn’t the angel said almost the same words to him just minutes ago? 

“Saint Raphael is the Archangel of healing, and Ramiel is supposedly the Archangel of hope. I have to believe that they will help us, Crowley, that they can heal the damage that’s been done between Heaven and Earth, maybe even Heaven and Hell.” 

Incredulous, Crowley turned on the angel, who was looking up at him, pleading, begging him. There was no chance Crowley would jump in and agree to this foolhardy, suicidal plan. 

“You’re on a fool’s errand, Aziraphale. Do you think you’re just going to scare up the missing Archangels and what, conscript them into your own little war? Are you going to take on Michael and Gabriel and Uriel for dominion over Heaven?” Crowley couldn’t stop himself, the anger, the betrayal, was spilling over. “And what happens next, in this ineffable plan of yours? You rule over Heaven and Hell with the might of four Archangels at your back? Stronger, wiser than God? You’re just another toy soldier like all the rest of them.”

Aziraphale stood up too, and that shimmer of power was back, warping the air around him like heat off tarmac. “That’s not it at all, Crowley, I thought you would understand. You said that you and I are on the same side! Don’t you see I’m trying to bring everyone back together?”

“God! Fucking… Christ, Aziraphale, I’ve never met anyone so deluded. After everything we’ve been through, you still think there’s good in Heaven?”

The words hung in the air. Crowley faced off against Aziraphale as if he were the Adversary once again. There were no damnable sides, there was only bigotry and intolerance and those few who struggled within it and chose to be kind against all odds. It was so clear to Crowley, had been clear since he had landed upon the rocks in the pits of Hell, broken and bleeding golden ichor into the ravenous ground as his brothers were cast down around him. Aziraphale was still clinging to Heaven like a man drowning in the stars, and Crowley felt himself drowning with him.

“Why can’t you see what’s right in front of you?” Crowley whispered. 

“I have to believe in good, otherwise what do I stand for?” 

Crowley leaned against the windowsill, looking at the reflection of his own eyes in the glass. It was sweet, in a way, Aziraphale’s desperate hope that he could keep his family together. He was so earnest, handing out endless second chances that not one of them deserved, his clemency wildly misplaced. Crowley couldn’t wait around forever for the angel to finally clue in, but he knew he couldn’t leave either. 

With his heart torn, tears of frustration pricking at the corners of his eyes, Crowley said, “Just go.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale put a hand on his shoulder for the second time that afternoon.

At that moment, what Crowley wanted to express was,  _ I don’t understand why you want to find the Archangels, but I can see that it’s important to you, and I want you to be careful so you don’t get hurt _ . What he said was, “Take care of yourself.” 

Aziraphale’s hand fell away. “Oh.” His voice, that one little word, cracking. 

The door slammed behind Aziraphale before Crowley could catch up mentally, and he fell to his knees, head resting on the white paneled wood. “Fuck me,” he muttered, wondering how he could possibly screw up so many times in one life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote is from John Milton's "Paradise Lost"


	6. Chapter 6

Steam curled off the surface of the water, billowy lavender-scented clouds expanding to fill the entire bathroom. Crowley lounged, almost fully submerged under the hot water and bubbles. He didn’t often indulge in such extravagant baths--swells of bubbles, scented soap, candles, a glass of wine--but when he did, it reminded him of the public Roman spas from so long ago, or indeed, the saunas of the 70s. Good memories there. Technically, such establishments still existed, but they weren’t the same anymore. Or maybe it was Crowley who had changed. 

“Why did I have to go and fall in love with an angel?” He sipped his wine, a dark, fruity cab sauv, with chocolatey accents of cocoa. The smell of the bubbles did interesting things to the flavour of the wine, and Crowley wasn’t entirely sure it was a good match. Was there a technique to pairing wine with bubble baths?  _ Aziraphale would probably know… _

Like a caged beast, his thoughts kept circling back to Aziraphale and the disastrous parley of the day before. Aziraphale had just been trying to help, and Crowley had stuck his foot in it yet again. Sighing, he felt frustration coil his insides, and he wondered how long he and Aziraphale would argue about Heaven. He wondered if he could truly restore Ligur’s demonic grace, or if he would be wracked with guilt for the rest of his immortal life. Maybe he’d been too quick to cast off Aziraphale’s suggestion that the Archangels could help, but that was like searching for salvation in myths. The missing four weren’t helping anybody, wherever they were, and the other three had tried to kill both Crowley and Aziraphale already, so their favour was unlikely. 

Eventually, tomorrow morning perhaps, Crowley would drive to Aziraphale’s and apologize for his careless words. He’d bring scones, or maybe fresh muffins, and throw himself at the angel’s feet, kissing his boots and begging his forgiveness. Or maybe he’d play it cool; he could pick up flowers for the bookshop and stroll in like normal, making himself at home while Aziraphale worked. If he pretended like nothing was wrong, maybe nothing would be. Or yet still, he could ride in and sweep him off his feet and never let him go, and wouldn’t the angel swoon into his arms and declare, “Crowley, I have always loved you, and only you” and wouldn’t they fall into each other right there on the bookshop floor and make love like they were dying… 

A knock from the outside door startled Crowley out of his idle imaginings. If his face hadn’t already been warm from the steamy air, he would have blushed, even though there was no one there to see him. 

Another knock. Maybe if Crowley waited, they would go away. It was probably someone selling something anyway, or an evangelist. Now, wouldn’t  _ that _ be funny. Crowley had always wanted to try his wiles against a proselytizing street minister.

They knocked again, insistently, and with a resigned sigh Crowley went to go check it out. He stepped out of the bath and toweled off his legs so he didn’t drip all over the wood flooring, then he wrapped another towel securely around his waist and went out into the hall towards the front door. Come to think, it was late, who would be knocking now? 

By the entrance, Crowley had a little accent table where he kept spare sunglasses, one of which he snagged. It fogged up immediately, much to his annoyance. He opened the door, saw who it was, and shut the door again.

“Let me in, you bastard!” came the voice from the other side, along with more ferocious knocking. 

Crowley took a few healthy steps back. Behind that door was a tall white man with button-black eyes and straw hair, if said straw’d been trampled by horses and scented with the delicate aroma of barn animals. 

“What do you want, Hastur?” Crowley called wearily. 

“The Lady of the Acropolis has informed me of your sworn oath, and I am bounden thus as your worthy aid and vassal.”

“Who did what now?” 

“Lila sent me to help you, idiot.” 

Crowley opened the door, and Hastur stepped in. He scanned the room, eyes flicking nervously into each corner, and Crowley realized he was checking for traps. Guilt twinged in his belly. It was a wonder he didn’t have ulcers. 

Sniffing the air, Hastur gave Crowley a scrutinizing glance. “Were you bathing?”

“Might want to try it sometime,” Crowley said sourly. Hastur was the last person he wanted to entertain at this time of the evening. Besides, he had thought the whole reporting-in-to-Hell deal would have gone by the wayside once he’d been branded a traitor, but apparently some channels never closed. 

Hastur wandered into the kitchen, and Crowley followed, making sure he didn’t move anything out of place, or smudge the countertops, or--Crowley grimaced--set his frog down on the table and leave a big slimy residue. Yeargh. The creature was sitting backwards on Hastur’s head, looking at him, and Crowley wondered if demons could see through their familiar’s eyes as well as their own.  _ How would that work for Beelzebub? _ he puzzled, becoming completely distracted. 

“No please, help yourself, I insist,” Crowley hissed after Hastur had already reached into the biscuit tin. 

Exasperated, Crowley continued to follow Hastur as he walked through the study where he kept his plants and back into the living room. He thought he saw a leaf spot, and growled under his breath as a warning before turning back to keep an eye on his visitor. 

Hastur sat on the couch and put his boots on the cushion, and Crowley felt a vein throb in his temple. Is this how Aziraphale felt whenever Crowley did that at the bookshop? 

“Have you figured out how to fix him yet?” Hastur asked, munching on a ginger biscuit. 

“Er, I might have a lead on something promising.” 

“Do you now?” Demon and frog turned the beady-black eye factor up to ten. 

Crowley felt rather foolish, standing there in naught but a towel and sunglasses, trying to pull a solution out of thin air. He hadn’t had enough time, there was only… “I do,  _ in fact _ .” He put on his most affronted manner. “I’m going to find the missing Archangel Raphael, and ask him to heal Ligur.” It sounded almost plausible. 

“Raphael? Which one was he, again?” 

“I think he had hair, and sort of, you know, wings…” Crowley racked his brain, but couldn’t find a single memory of the Archangel. It was possible they had never met; there were millions of angels, after all. 

Hastur raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m convinced.” 

“Eh, odds are any old Archangel would do, I just gotta find one. I thought of Raphael because of the whole healing shindig, so there must be something he can do. You wouldn’t, ehm, happen to remember any of the others, would you?” 

“I don’t remember much from before the Fall.” 

“Yeah, me either,” Crowley muttered. He decided to bring scones  _ and _ flowers to Aziraphale’s tomorrow, because so far he was the only one to suggest a workable plan, even if it was a long shot. After ‘ask Satan’, Crowley’s only other idea had been ‘reverse exorcism’, but he really had no clue how that would work. 

“So, have you seen him?” Hastur fiddled with his coat sleeve. 

“Ligur? Yeah.” 

“Good, good.” 

Crowley waited for Hastur to continue.

“Is he, you know, okay?” 

“Wait, have you not seen him?” It had been over a month since Doomsday; Ligur had been out and about every day since then as far as Crowley was aware. “You two used to go everywhere together, as far back as I can remember. We used to call you Holmes and Watson downstairs. Eeeeh, well,  _ I _ called you Holmes and Watson, but I thought it’d catch on eventually. No?” 

It was then that Crowley noticed Hastur’s expression, with his eyes downcast, with fingers that worried the loose threads at his sleeve. 

“Er, it’s gonna be okay?” Crowley wanted nothing more than to get back to his bath, but apparently he was stuck comforting a demon. Other people’s pain made his heart hurt in sympathy, but as a self-respecting demon, he’d never admit it out loud. 

Hastur shook his head, staring at nothing. “I’ve been avoiding him. It’s not that I want to, see.”

“I’m not your priest, Hastur, you don’t owe me a confession.” 

“He probably thinks I’m a jerk.”

“No, really, don’t say that…”  _ Please leave. _ If Hastur started crying, then Crowley would cry, and then they’d all be embarrassed. “Just go see him. I have his address.” 

“It’s not that easy.”

“Isn’t it? Just pop on over for tea--”

“I haven’t talked to him at all since--since you… I thought it would hurt too much, him being mortal now. They have such short lives, humans do.” Hastur sniffled.

“Why would that--hey, wait.” Crowley felt his head spin with a sudden realization. “Wait, so you and Ligur are--”

“--shacking up?” Crowley finished at the same time Hastur said, “Married.” 

Gobsmacked, Crowley could only gape at Hastur. His mouth formed words that he couldn’t spit out. 

“You didn’t know?” 

“Uh…” At the very least, Crowley was glad his embarrassed ignorance could bring a smirk to Hastur’s sullen countenance. 

“We had the ceremony in Egypt, during the New Kingdom.”

Mentally counting backwards, Crowley figured, “Three and a half thousand years ago? What--how--why wasn’t I invited?” 

“I don’t know, I think you were in Mesopotamia or something.”

“ _ That’s right next to Egypt!”  _

Crowley had to sit with that for a moment. Married for nearly four thousand years, and Crowley had never cottoned on, but wasn’t it obvious? They were inseparable.  _ Holmes and Watson, indeed _ . Shit, now Ligur’s descent into mortality felt all the more tragic, for he would someday be claimed by the gentle hands of Death while Hastur would live on until the universe itself reached its ultimate end… 

Holding his towel steady, Crowley collapsed on the couch next to Hastur. He was the viper that with piercing fangs and vulgar venom had sent poor Eurydice to the caverns of the Underworld. 

“I’ll bring him back, Hastur,” Crowley vowed, “if I have to bend my knee before God Herself. Now, don’t keep him waiting any longer.” 

Hastur made a gesture as if he were about to pat Crowley’s shoulder, seemingly thought better of it, and made his way out the door. 

_ What have I gotten myself into _ ?

As promised (in his own mind, at least), the next morning Crowley showed up at the door to A. Z. Fell & Co. with breakfast and a bouquet of fall flowers. There were chrysanthemums in velvet-red and burnished gold, lush yellow roses, orange spotted Peruvian lilies, all mixed in with fresh greenery. Aziraphale might not know flowers the way Crowley did, but it looked beautiful and smelled Heavenly. 

There was a man standing outside the shop, comparing the posted hours of operation to the sign which read ‘closed’, as Crowley walked up. 

“Must have screwed up big time, mate,” he said, eyeing Crowley’s flowers. 

When Crowley sneered at him, the man stepped back in shock, and Crowley realized he had forgotten his sunglasses. He flicked out his tongue, and the stranger scurried away, leaving the demon standing alone on the angel’s doorstep. Though it was closed and certainly locked, metal clicked under Crowley’s fingertips and the deadbolt slid open, silently admitting him into the darkened interior.  _ Thank you, _ he murmured as he passed over the threshold. 

“We’re closed!” yelled Aziraphale from the back. “Thank you for your business but come back later!” 

Crowley went in anyway and found the angel stooped over his desk, examining several dusty leather-bound books and a spread of old yellowed papers with curling edges. Those little round spectacles were perched on his nose, the ones that completed his fussy professor look. On the floor next to him lay a canvas duffle bag with the flap open, inside of which Crowley could see the rumpled folds of Aziraphale’s clothing. As he watched, Aziraphale swept his papers into a stack and placed them in the bag, and Crowley’s heart flipped over. He was… packing? 

Aziraphale looked up, frowning, at Crowley’s approach. 

“Oh, it’s you.” 

Oh, that hurt, the scorn in his voice, the careless look away, as if Crowley wasn’t worth his attention, or his goodbye. 

“I brought breakfast,” Crowley said, sidling into his peripheral vision.

“Hmph.” 

“And flowers.” 

“Hrmm.” 

“And… an apology.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, zipping his bag and buckling the flap closed. “We can’t keep doing this.” 

Setting down the flowers and the brown paper bag on Aziraphale’s desk, Crowley tried to calm his racing heart. The air seemed too thin, and he couldn’t draw a large enough breath. “What are you talking about?” 

“This.” Aziraphale gestured to Crowley, the flowers, and everything all at once. “We blow up at each other, avoid each other for ages, apologize, rinse, repeat. I can’t keep doing it. I can’t fight you, Crowley.” 

“No, we… we don’t have to fight. I’m here, Aziraphale, I… this doesn’t--”

“You told me to go. So, this is me, going.” 

“I didn’t mean go forever, you can’t--look, I came here to say I’m sorry for what I said, you can’t--”

“Can’t what, Crowley?” The angel’s voice shook, whether from anger or some other emotion, Crowley couldn’t tell. “What do you want from me? I’m not going to run away with you to the stars and leave the world to burn, I have a responsibility to this Earth, this  _ life. _ Crowley, six thousand years ago, I was the guardian of the Eastern Gate, and I gave my sword to protect humanity. Now I have it back, and--oh, why can’t you see?--I’m standing between Heaven and Hell, on  _ our _ side, but it’s not just you and me, it’s humanity and everyone else who--who rejects provincialism, and--.” 

“Why? Why can’t it just be us?” Crowley felt like he was slipping off the edge, like he was Falling again, watching the face of his angel recede ever farther out of his reach. 

“The Earth has given me more than Heaven ever has. You helped me realize that, you know.”

Head spinning, knowing only that he couldn’t bear to watch Aziraphale walk away, he searched for something, anything that would buy him more time. “So, what will you do? You’re going to run around waving your sword and chase off any angels that show up on Earth?” He laughed desperately, afraid that Aziraphale might do just that. 

“I’ve been telling you, I’m going to find the Archangels. And you might be right, they might be gone, or they might not care about humanity, but I have to try something, don’t I? I’m not going to wait around for the next Doomsday.” 

“What you’re trying to do is impossible, you can’t take on the whole world--” 

He held up his hand for silence, and Crowley stopped as if he’d been slapped. “It’s not us against the world, and it never has been. If you can’t see that, then…” He took a deep breath. “Look, my de-- Crowley. I don’t want to fight you anymore. I’m leaving.” 

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, Aziraphale started towards the front door, and Crowley felt the sting of familiarity. How many times had they been here? Like Aziraphale had said, fight, apologize, rinse, repeat, until the bird wore the mountain down with its beak. 

“No!” Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s arm. “Angel, I am not letting you walk away from me. I thought I lost you once, for real, and I am not letting that happen again.” 

Aziraphale looked at him silently. 

“We can run, or we can stay, or whatever you like, but I need you. With me. Always.” It was a simple truth, Crowley realized as he said it. He didn’t need the world, as long as he had Aziraphale, but… Perhaps the world needed Aziraphale. 

“I need you,” Crowley said again, praying Aziraphale would hear what he was really saying. 

With a soft thump, Aziraphale’s bag dropped to the floor. He took Crowley’s hand. “Come with me, then. Fight with me. Don’t run away. My darling, I can show you that there is still good, if not in Heaven, then in the world, if you’ll let me.” 

Crowley nodded, lamely, hands trembling in the angel’s steadfast grip. “There’s something I should I tell you, Angel--”

“Shhh.” 

Why was Aziraphale so calm when Crowley felt like he was falling apart and being made whole all at the same time? He felt like he was once again wading through an inferno in Aziraphale’s bookshop, battered by a ferocious vortex of heat and whirling air currents, calling out Aziraphale’s name; only this time, he answered.

“I already know, my dear.” 

Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s jaw in his warm, steady hand, and suddenly Crowley felt as if he could stand. When Aziraphale kissed him, he felt as if he could finally breathe, and what sweet breath it was. He leaned into the angel, grabbing him by the lapels and locking him in place. His kisses were chaste, and gentle, yet still Crowley grew drunk off them, unable to get enough. Was this the first time in six thousand years? How could it be, when Aziraphale’s lips fit his perfectly, his body as comfortable and familiar as Crowley’s own? 

He smelled of the new cologne that was quickly becoming Crowley’s favourite; earthy and masculine like sandalwood, and underneath, the scent unique to Aziraphale that was at once fresh as citrus and dusty as the pages of his books. Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley’s shoulders, kissing him again and again, as if he were attempting to make up for all the time they’d wasted dancing around each other. 

Finally, they rested, and Crowley pressed his face into the side of Aziraphale’s neck, breathing him in. Aziraphale’s fingers wound through his hair, petting him, and strangely, that felt more intimate to Crowley than anything he’d experienced before. 

“I love you, Aziraphale.” As if it wasn’t clear enough. “I should have told you a long time ago. There were so many times when we were together, and I should have said--”

“I don’t regret a single second of the time I’ve spent with you, Crowley.” Aziraphale kissed his cheek. “Speaking of time… we have a flight to catch.” 

“We?” Crowley asked, taking a step back but not dropping his hands from Aziraphale’s chest. 

Aziraphale blushed, and straightened Crowley’s jacket. “I erm, might have bought two tickets, just on the off chance that you might, well, that is, I was going to call you, but then you showed up anyway, and--”

Crowley silenced him with a kiss.


	7. Chapter 7

Though it was before the midday rush on a typical autumn Thursday, Heathrow was still busy. People in important-looking suits walked briskly by, making important-sounding phone calls on their mobiles, dragging their rolling luggage behind them. Jet-lagged travellers clutched paper coffee cups while they waited for ground transportation to take them on to the next part of their journey. Young families tapped their feet while they stood in the queue for security, simply impatient, or perhaps late. 

Aziraphale strolled along more leisurely, hand in hand with Crowley. Miraculously, the queue moved much faster once they joined it, and it only took a short while until they were on the other side, where the departure gates, and more importantly, all the shops were. Even though they’d eaten back at the shop, Aziraphale wanted to grab a bite first thing at one of the nifty little airport lounges. Crowley, however, was instantly distracted, looking up and down the rows of shops, the glass fronts which revealed eye-catching displays of fine goods inside, the modern LED screens and the fancy lettering which labelled each shop, marking out the designer brands, opulent jewelry, and even a spa. 

It was almost more fun to watch Crowley than look at the fashionable items on display. He walked around the terminal, dragging Aziraphale behind him, and his excitement was palpable. While Aziraphale always kept himself well-groomed, and of course he liked the clothing he chose to wear, high fashion had always been Crowley’s domain, and here he was surrounded by famous names. There was Harrods fine watches, glittering under glass display cases, the iconic leather handbags of Mulberry and the trendy collection of Paul Smith, and many others besides. Tucked in the far corner was World of Whiskies, which Crowley said they had to check out before their flight left. 

With a longing glance across the terminal at a restaurant called The Caviar House, Aziraphale let Crowley pull him back towards Burberry, a fashionable clothing shop. How Aziraphale wished he could see Crowley’s eyes behind his sunglasses; they must be shining with excitement. Crowley found a section of men’s jackets, and he ran his fingers over the silks and linens and comfortable wool. 

“How do you like this, Angel?” Crowley asked, holding up a brown pinstripe jacket and waistcoat. 

“Very nice, it’d bring some colour to your wardrobe.” 

“I wear colours,” he said mildly, and put it back. 

Next, he picked up a brown cotton trench coat and shrugged into it, raising his eyebrows at Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale rather thought Crowley would look stylish wearing a wet paper bag, but he played along anyway. “Mmm, it could be a smidge longer. I think you’d look very keen with long coat flapping around your ankles, and all.” 

It struck him suddenly that he was allowed to touch Crowley now. On the surface, nothing felt different; they’d known each other so long they couldn’t possibly be more at ease, but now there was something new, a different instrument added to their old comfortable melody. He gave in to what he had wanted to do for so long, and adjusted Crowley’s clothing, brushing his shoulders and trailing fingers down his arms. Crowley caught his hand and brought it to his lips. Aziraphale felt his cheeks grow hot, and he gave Crowley a soft smile. 

Then the clerk came over and asked them very pointedly if they needed help finding anything, so Crowley hung up the coat and they moved along. On the way out, Aziraphale noticed a beige tartan bum bag, and he just had to take a closer look. It was fancy, with leather straps and red cotton interior lining. 

“Oh, Angel, no,” Crowley groaned. 

Aziraphale grinned, saying, “I think it’s cute.” 

“Abhorrent, you mean. And--holy Hell--it’s  _ 550£! _ ” 

Little outside the price range of a bookkeeper, especially after what he’d already spent for their trip. Aziraphale linked his arm with Crowley’s and they left the shop. 

“That reminds me, we should probably get our currency exchanged before we leave.” He could see a bureau de change kiosk in the middle of the terminal. 

“Where are we going, again?” Crowley asked. 

“It’s called the Guardian Angel Cathedral, in America. I have it on good authority that there is an Archangel residing there, though it’s unclear who, exactly.” 

“Near anything interesting?” 

“Oh, well, not much to speak of…” Aziraphale tried to play it coy. 

Giving him a strange look, Crowley snatched his boarding pass out of Aziraphale’s breast pocket and scanned it. “McCarran International, Nevada--hold on, we’re going to Las Vegas!?” He grinned broadly. “I told you I love you just this morning and you’re already taking me away for a shotgun wedding?” 

“No, that’s not it at all,” Aziraphale laughed, secretly pleased at the prospect. It was rather like an elopement, wasn’t it? 

“We can have Elvis present our vows.” 

“Oh dear.” He ducked his head against Crowley’s shoulder, and said a silent blessing to the Archangel Whomever for choosing to live somewhere he could take Crowley for a grand old time. While he was at it, he blessed Crowley, for choosing him. 

“Feeling a little tingle in my aura, Aziraphale. What are you thinking about?” 

Laughing again, he kissed Crowley. “It’s nothing, my dear. I’m just happy.” 

The desert heat hit Aziraphale like a physical blow. He and Crowley were standing outside McCarran International Airport, waiting for the shuttle that would take them to their hotel. Even in the shade under the overhanging roof, the heat was intense, radiating off the black tarmac in visible waves. Sweat dripped down his back, and he checked on Crowley, who must be faring much worse in his customary black ensemble. 

“I don’t think it’s ever been this hot in London,” Crowley said, fanning himself with a magazine. “Don’t they have autumn in America?” 

A young white woman carrying two suitcases, waiting to board a nearly-full shuttle, turned to them. “It’s a lot worse in the summer, trust me. You wouldn’t even want to be outside when it’s over a hundred degrees.” She had an American accent, southern, Aziraphale thought. 

“What’s that in celsius?” Crowley grumbled. He took off his jacket and unbuttoned his waistcoat. Aziraphale tried to look nonchalant as he stared at Crowley’s forearms. 

“No idea. Where are you two from, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Crowley answered, “London.” 

“I’ve never been, always wanted to visit, though. Where are you staying while you’re here?” 

“Encore, one of the Wynn hotels,” Aziraphale said, in response to Crowley’s questioning head-tilt. 

“Oh, that’s an excellent one. Very modern art sort of feel. I actually stayed at the Wynn during my best friend’s wedding two years ago, it’s beautiful inside. There was this one fancy seafood joint we all went to, overlooking their lake; you have to check it out while you’re here, it was so good. Oh, and XS Las Vegas, probably the best nightclub on the Strip, we waited in line forever and couldn’t even get in, but that’s another one you just have to see. Get there early, though.” 

“I don’t know if that’s really--” Aziraphale started, but Crowley cut him off.

“We will definitely be going, thank you.” 

She looked as if she wanted to say more, but then the driver brought her luggage to the boot and she clambered into the shuttle with a little wave. “Have fun y’all! It’s a great weekend for a wedding!” 

If it was possible, Aziraphale felt even hotter under the collar than before, but he waved goodbye to the overly-friendly woman. Crowley was smirking, and Aziraphale resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs. 

“We’re not actually getting married, you know.” He felt he had to remind Crowley. Not that the prospect was displeasing, but it was too soon. “Besides, we have a job to do. Archangel, remember?” 

“Yeah, I hadn’t forgotten. But we’re in  _ Vegas _ , come on and let loose a little!” 

_ How exactly do you suggest one ‘let loose’?  _ Aziraphale wondered, but decided not to ask, because his idea of letting loose was probably significantly different from Crowley’s. Curling up in his hotel room with a cup of tea and a book about historic Las Vegas sounded delightful, then maybe a spot of supper in a high-end lounge after the sun went down. As long as he got out of the heat before his feathers molted. In fact, a little lie-down sounded cracking, after their long flight, and thanks to the time difference, they would still have time to visit the cathedral. 

“Take off your jacket, at least, Angel.” 

Reluctantly, Aziraphale removed his long tan coat and hung it over his arm. It felt much too casual. He never went anywhere without multiple layers, buttoned up from ankle to neck like a proper gentleman. Unlike modern folk, especially in the desert, it seemed, where everyone was walking around wearing shorts and sleeveless shirts, practically naked. Aziraphale remembered the days of long, flowing linens like the simlāh. Now  _ that _ was appropriate desert wear. 

A new shuttle arrived, and the driver took Aziraphale’s only bag while he and Crowley sat in the back. Others piled in next to them, filling in the rest of the seats quickly. Then they were off, leaving the airport via the south tunnel and looping around to head north up Las Vegas Boulevard. Crowley had his face glued to the window, while Aziraphale sat uncomfortably between him and a stranger, trying to see past the bodies blocking his view. 

The landscape was rather flat, though in the far distance Aziraphale thought he could see the blue shadows of mountains. On either side of the wide highway was a rocky brown verge, with the occasional cactus-looking plant, but after they passed the “Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas” sign, the grounds became more manicured, with raked gravel, and palm trees, and even strips of lawn. 

It was still early, so traffic was manageable and they made good time to the first drop off. First they passed by Mandalay Bay, an absolutely massive three-pronged structure that towered over everything nearby, like the herald of the Strip. Then the shuttle pulled into the car park in front of the Luxor, the great black pyramid, modeled after the great pyramids of ancient Egypt. They stopped under the Sphinx and the first pair of passengers disembarked. 

Heaving an exaggerated sigh, Crowley turned and said, “It’s just not the same, with all these modern conveniences added on. Takes away from the gritty realism, you know?” 

Aziraphale scoffed. “I’ll keep my modern conveniences, thank you.” 

Soon, that pale replica of millennia past faded into the rearview, and they made several more stops on their way up the Strip, giving them the chance to view so many famous landmarks drably lit under the unforgiving desert sun. There was an older crowd out, a low hum of shoppers walking the pavement or stopping for a late lunch in front of one of the hotels. Aziraphale supposed that it was never actually quiet in Vegas, but he rather liked the dilute energy of a weekday afternoon. He could waste time here comfortably, at least until the more boisterous nighttime crowd came out.

Aziraphale leaned over Crowley to see the beautiful blue lake, the Fountains of Bellagio, but they were on the wrong side of the road for it. On their right was Paris, with its replica of the Eiffel Tower, and a row of bronze angel statues sitting on the top wall of the chateau facade. They were green with tarnish, or maybe they’d been built that way. He looked away, feeling bitter. 

Finally, they turned onto Wynn Boulevard and pulled up to the main entrance of the Encore. The driveway was bordered with green plants and late flowers, and Aziraphale had to crane his neck back to see the top of the building. It was an enormous curved tower, nearly two hundred metres tall, with windows reflecting the colours of the sky as the sun began to sink. The shuttle driver handed Aziraphale his bag, and Aziraphale gave him a tip (as is proper in America, he thought), and he and Crowley headed into the lobby. 

Inside was gorgeous, in a colour scheme of reds and creams with eclectic art, sweeping crystal chandeliers, carved columns, crown molding, and here and there, simple potted plants that broke up the manufactured splendor and provided a shade of easy serenity. Crowley walked around the corner while Aziraphale checked them in at the desk and got their room keys. 

“Look, Angel, the casino,” Crowley said, practically licking his lips, a light of avarice glowing behind his dark sunglasses. He was cute when he was all demonic, but rather than admit that, Aziraphale put on his best frown of angelic disapproval. 

“Heaven doesn’t think very highly of those who gamble away their earnings, you know. ‘For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil,’” Aziraphale quoted, knowing Crowley would call him out. 

“You’re telling me you shelled out for a hotel on the Strip and you’re not even going to hit the penny slots?” 

“Wouldn’t you rather spend your money on a nice dinner, or a show, or I don’t know, the gift shops?”

“Gift shops--?” Crowley made a strangled noise, and Aziraphale laughed. “You’re such a tease.” 

Gesturing with his head, Crowley led them onto the casino floor. It was nearly empty. The gaming tables, surrounded by plush black and cream stools, stood alone and deserted, while farther back, the slot machines twinkled and glowed unattended. The area itself was lavish, carpeted in red with a pattern of butterflies, and red chandeliers above hanging from a coffered ceiling. It was the kind of place that made one want to show off their wealth, and even Aziraphale felt the itch in his fingertips. When was the last time he’d played poker? 

“We can come back,” Aziraphale began, touching Crowley’s shoulder, “after we’ve found an Archangel.” 

“Good idea, maybe they’ll give us a blessing for the roulette wheels.” 

They left the casino area and walked past the Lobby Bar, which had an interesting statue of--a woman? a tree?--on the way to the lifts. Aziraphale checked his watch; the cathedral was technically closed after 3PM on weekdays, but the doors would never be locked for an angel. They could scope it out, at least get a sense of whether a great divine presence had visited recently or not. It was the little possibility of ‘or not’ that had Aziraphale worried, but, he told himself, this time he had Crowley by his side. They’d already fought for the world, and for each other; surely angling for an Archangel was a simpler matter. 

\---

Encore’s luxury resort room was decorated in airy, neutral colours. The light wood-laminate floors were laid out in a square parquet pattern, and the walls were a similar tan with darker trim. Simple furniture provided functionality with no loss of elegance. There was a work desk and a corner couch, both done in contrasting black. Of course, upon stepping into the room, Crowley didn’t notice any of that; rather, his eyes were drawn to the floor-to-ceiling window that faced the entry. 

He could see the Strip from their room, which faced south. The curved tower of Encore’s sister, the Wynn, took up a good portion of the view, but past it Crowley could see a fair ways down Las Vegas Boulevard. He stepped up to the window and gazed out across the city, and from this vantage point he could see the massive scope of the nearer hotels; Encore and Wynn together took up an entire city block, and the skyline was cluttered with other skyscrapers. To the southwest he could see the ridges of mountains, which looked hazy and gentle from such a distance. 

Vegas should be viewed from a height, Crowley decided, because standing in the canyon of the Strip was far too limiting. His wings itched; he wanted to leap out the window and soar far above the city, beyond the flat desert, riding the updrafts and wheeling over the rugged, bare mountains until his feathers became frosty with altitude. There was just something about the desert that made him want to fly. 

Behind him, Aziraphale dropped his bag on the ground and flopped into bed, and Crowley found himself jolted back to Earth. He took in the hotel room; the sitting room/bedroom area was spacious and bright, not exactly Crowley’s style but it was nice enough to stay in for a couple of nights. 

Aziraphale had claimed the bed closer to the door, leaving Crowley the one on the window side. 

There were two beds. 

Of course there were two beds. Who would have expected otherwise? Certainly not Crowley. He tugged at the collar of his T-shirt, feeling suddenly off-kilter. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Aziraphale, who looked so relaxed and cozy with his eyes closed, hands clasped over his belly. This wasn’t weird; they’d slept in the same room before. 

_ Shit _ . He was in Vegas, with Aziraphale, and there were two beds.  _ Obviously. _ Crowley shuffled into the loo and shut the door softly behind him. He wanted to go full serpent and coil up in the cool marble tub, but he settled for sitting on the edge instead. It was hitting him all of a sudden, the events of the day. It was real, right? Aziraphale had kissed him that morning, back in London. Or had it been a dream brought on by cheap champagne and high altitudes? 

He had waited six thousand years, and now it was all moving too fast. They were in bloody  _ Vegas _ , like they’d skipped the wedding and went straight to the honeymoon, and Crowley couldn’t keep up. Meanwhile, the clock ticked on, marking out Crowley’s ever-mounting guilt over what he’d done to Ligur, and counting down the time left in his new mortal life. Here was Crowley panicking over his newfound courtship with Aziraphale, while he was the one who’d doomed the love between Hastur and Ligur to a tragic end. Decades seemed too short.

Wrestling his mobile out of his pocket, he pressed call on the voice of reason. 

“Crowley? Thought you were on the plane.” 

“Yeah, well, we just landed. Hey, Ligur…” Crowley paused. He’d filled Ligur in earlier about their plan to find the Archangel in America, but had omitted the detail about exactly where they were going. What was he supposed to say now?  _ Hey Ligur, I know you’re slowly dying and I’m supposed to be searching for a cure, but do you have a minute for some relationship advice? See, I’m in Vegas with my boyfriend… _

“Crowley? Are you there?” 

“Uh, yeah. Did Hastur ever come visit? I gave him a stern talking-to just yesterday, was wondering if he finally got his head out of his arse.” 

Ligur gave a low chuckle. “He’s here now. Thanks for that, by the way. Do you want to talk to him?”

“No,” Crowley said, a bit too quickly. “Er, that’s okay. Me and the angel are going to visit the cathedral today, see if the Archangel’s in.” 

“Right. Where did you say you were, again?” 

“Er. Vegas.” 

“What?!” Ligur’s voice exploded in Crowley’s ear, and he held the phone out. “Vegas, as in Las Vegas, as in Sin City? As in gambling, and gluttony, and temptation, and lust, that Vegas? Fuck, mate, you should have said earlier, I want to come too.” 

Crowley pursed his lips. He should have thought of that, except it had all happened rather suddenly, hadn’t it? A voice in the background--Hastur?--murmured something indistinct, to which Ligur replied, “Yeah, the bastards went to Vegas.” 

“I’ll bring you next time,” Crowley grouched. 

“I can just picture it-- angels in Sin City. How’s Aziraphale holding up, by the way? He hasn’t collapsed under the weight of human depravity yet?”

“Oh, him? Yeah, no, he’s fine. Just, you know, spiffy. Everything’s fine. Why do you ask?”  _ Smooth, Crowley _ , he said to himself, resting his chin on his fist. 

“Wow, what’s your deal?” 

“Okay, look,” Crowley began, feeling utterly stupid. He could just hang up. And sit in the bathtub for the rest of the trip, where Aziraphale might just forget about him, and then he would never have to confront the awkwardness he was feeling. “He kissed me this morning.” 

Silence. “And?”

“Well, it was the first time, so.” In six thousand years, Crowley had never felt so much like a twelve-year-old schoolkid. It was undignified. 

“Wait, you’re kidding. Everyone assumed you two were shagging for the past few millennia.”

“No, actually. I mean, we’ve spent plenty of time together, but with being hereditary enemies and all--hang on, what do you mean, everyone?” 

Ligur said nothing, and Crowley could feel his smugness even across the distance of 8400 kilometres. 

“ _ Ligur, who is everyone?”  _ Crowley could hear Hastur’s laugh in the background, the slimy git. “Tell Hastur to go away. Look, I’m lost here. We’re staying at a hotel together, for Heaven’s sake, it’s all too domestic.” 

“Forgive me if I lack sympathy for your utterly tragic situation,” Ligur said dryly. 

“I told him I loved him.” 

That got another rowdy laugh from Crowley’s unwanted audience. This was easily the most embarrassing conversation he’d ever had. 

“So what’s the problem here?” 

“Shit, I dunno, what am I supposed to do now? Honestly, I never thought I’d get this far.” 

“Okay, mate, first--stop wasting my fucking time with this.” Ligur’s voice was teasing. “Second, find this Archangel and  _ make me a demon again. _ You’re in Vegas with your man, you arsehole; lighten up a little!” 

“Hey, get me a photo of Elvis,” said Hastur. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley grumbled. “Right, bye then.” He hung up, reflecting on the unhappy state of his own humiliation. Ligur was right, though; Crowley had pined after Aziraphale for so long, and now he’d finally found his feelings reciprocated. Mostly. Probably. They hadn’t exactly written up a contract. He should go out there and kiss him again, just to be sure. 

He took the few steps into the sitting room and found Aziraphale fully asleep, curled up on his side with his hands folded together under his head like a goddamn angelic stereotype. Crowley didn't want to disturb him, knowing Aziraphale didn’t sleep much. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Crowley shook him gently awake. His hand lingered on Aziraphale’s shoulder as the angel blinked up at him, eyes so soft, framed by white-blonde curls. 

“We’re wasting daylight, Angel.” 

He sat up, sliding his legs off the bed so his thigh was touching Crowley’s. His angel, radiant, yet soft, wrapped an arm around Crowley’s shoulder and pulled their heads together. 

“I’m so glad you’re here with me, my dear,” he said. 

“What if I hadn’t showed up this morning?” The thought made Crowley tense. Being so close to Aziraphale made him tense. He was just… tense. 

“I’d have phoned. To be quite frank, I assumed it didn’t matter how angry you were at me, you would still want to go to Vegas.” 

“Ehhh, I wasn’t really angry. Irritated, maybe. Cross.”

“Sullen,” Aziraphale offered, kissing his cheek. 

Crowley might let that one slide, as long as Aziraphale kissed him again. It felt so right to be cuddled up next to Aziraphale, as if it was inevitable, but still he was afraid that it would all blow away in an instant. What if he got bored of Crowley and cast him aside? What if Crowley screwed up and scared him away? As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t relax. 

“You should change into something lighter before we go back outside,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale pursed his lips as if the thought was distasteful. “The desert gets cooler at night, you know.” 

“Miracle yourself a new jacket if you get cold, then. Here, can I help?” 

He waited for the angel’s hesitant nod before unbuttoning Aziraphale’s waistcoat and setting it on the bed next to his overcoat. The bowtie came off next, and Crowley stood back with an exaggerated motion like an artist examining a painting. 

“May I?” Crowley asked, letting the aura of his demonic magic extend into the space between them. 

“Don’t put me in anything… avant-garde.” 

Snapping his fingers, Crowley altered Aziraphale’s outfit to something lighter, a desert business-casual ensemble of tan chinos in a modern cut and a light blue plaid button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Crowley gave him braces instead of a belt because it felt more Aziraphale. He looked nice, and more importantly, he wouldn’t discorporate himself from heat stroke. 

“You can even put the bowtie back on if we go somewhere nice.” 

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale said, gazing at his own bare forearms as if he’d never seen them before. Crowley certainly hadn’t, as far as he could remember. They were very masculine arms, with big hands. Crowley turned and grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge before he went light-headed thinking about those hands. 

“Shall we?” Aziraphale offered his arm, and Crowley took it automatically, letting the angel lead them down the fabulous Encore hallway to the lifts. He was starting to see why Aziraphale normally preferred such a modest (if old-fashioned) style of dress; the alternative was proving distracting. 

Outside was as hot as when they had first touched down, and Crowley unlinked their arms before their flesh melted into each other. They walked through the verdant driveway of the Encore, following Wynn Boulevard towards Las Vegas Boulevard until they reached the cross walk that would take them the short ways north to the cathedral. Reaching Cathedral Way, they turned the corner and saw the little church at the end of the street, highlighted by the brilliant blue sky. 

It was a little A-frame building with a single spire out front, surrounded by scrubby desert trees and round cacti. On the front wall above the main doors was a mosaic of an angel standing over three figures labeled ‘Peace’, ‘Prayer’, and ‘Penance’. 

“Is this it?” Crowley asked. It was smaller than he’d anticipated, dwarfed by the splendor of the casinos in the southern skyline and the dry urban expanse to the north. He glanced across the lot at the nearby shopping center. “Oh, look, a hookah lounge. Let’s go there next.” 

“Focus, Crowley. Are you coming in?” 

Grudgingly, he followed Aziraphale through the doors, which swung open at his approach. Either the angel had suddenly gained a dramatic flair or the church itself was responding to his presence. Crowley half expected them to slam shut in his face, but no such luck. He walked down the central aisle, taking in the narrow pews, the triangular stained glass windows, the cross and the colourful mural behind it. He thought about the last time they’d been in a church together.

There was no one else there, this time. 

“Well, Angel? Sense anything?” He sat down, casting out his own esoteric feelers.

Walking back and forth in front of the altar, Aziraphale shook his head. “Just a transient sort of holiness. I suppose this place caters to tourists more than a constant congregation.” He stood in the light of a stained glass window, the colours--reds and yellows and blues--playing over his skin. Crowley could have wept. 

After a moment, Aziraphale came over and sat in the pew in front of Crowley, turning to look at him. The rows were so close together Crowley hardly had to reach to take his hand. His heart fluttered. Nervous. 

“You say we’re not getting married and then you take me to church?” 

“Oh, stop,” Aziraphale said, effervescent. “Hey, how are your feet?” 

“What? Why-- Oh.” Crowley hadn’t thought of that. Here he was sitting comfortably in a cathedral. He was aware of a divine web of energy that contrasted with his own demonic aura, but it wasn’t painful. Rather, he felt like a bubble of vinegar floating somewhere in the middle of a glass of water. This consecrated ground didn’t burn his feet like hot coals, more like a warm sand. It was almost pleasant. “Fine. It doesn’t hurt. Kind of weird, really.” 

“Maybe saving the world made you a little less… infernal.” 

“I’m as infernal as ever, thank you very much. All demon, all the time, that’s me. Maybe you’re a little less saintly.” 

Aziraphale’s hand went still in Crowley’s grasp, and he looked at the ground. “You might be right.” 

“Hey, Zira, I didn’t mean…” 

“No, you’ve always been right, Crowley.” He squeezed Crowley’s hand. “Heaven isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Then, why...?” 

“Why are we here, looking for an Archangel, you mean? I’m a soldier, my sweet. I was bred to fight in God’s holy army, but I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to face the rapture, or Armageddon, or another bloody war in Heaven. I just want…”

“What?” Crowley cupped Aziraphale’s jaw and ran his thumb across his cheek. “What do you want, Angel?”

“I just want a nice rosé, really. With a slice of almond cake and strawberries. A signed first edition of  _ Leaves of Grass _ . A cottage, and a garden, and… you.” 

Crowley didn’t know what to say, but he hoped Aziraphale couldn’t see the mist in his eyes through the sunglasses he’d miracled up at the airport. Aziraphale wanted him. Maybe Crowley would even let himself believe it someday. 

“Maybe it’s just a foolish dream, but maybe Raphael or Barachiel or someone can convince the other Archangels to leave the world alone. Or maybe they can help your friend. All I know is--even if I was born to fight, I can choose who I fight for. Yes? Warlock. Anathema. The people I love on this Earth, not those strangers in Heaven.” 

He laid his hand over Crowley’s heart, and Crowley clutched the angel’s wrists, anchoring himself. 

Crowley had always been a drifter. When had responsibility started to look so inviting? Ligur, Adam and the kids from Tadfield, Tracy, Aziraphale… Crowley would be proud to pick up a sword--or a tire iron--once again, for them. 

“I’m with you, Angel,” he whispered, voice sounding so small in the cavernous interior of the cathedral. “But we’re going to have to keep looking. I don’t think there’s an Archangel here.” 

Frowning, Aziraphale looked around. “They have to be here. I got this location from a trusted source--”

“Who exactly?” 

“Agnes Nutter.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “She isn’t exactly known for her clarity of language and easy-to-follow directions, is she? Maybe you got it wrong.” 

“Can’t have done.” 

“I think you’re the only angel that’s ever been in here, Aziraphale.” 

Standing, Crowley gave the space another sweep with his arcane senses. He could feel the consecration pushing back at him, and he perceived Aziraphale’s divinity blazing like a torch in the night air, but nothing as otherworldly and sacred as the power of an Archangel. They were long gone, if they’d ever been here at all. 

He held out his hand to Aziraphale. “Let’s go back. We can keep looking in the morning. Oh--and I should probably mention, we have a dinner reservation at seven.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's Bible quote is from 1 Timothy 6:10.


	8. Chapter 8

They returned briefly to their room, where Aziraphale pulled his notes out of his bag and spread them on the desktop. Crowley gave them a glance. Maps, old handwritten letters, a pocket-sized leather-bound journal. 

“Agnes liked to document sightings of angels and demons,” Aziraphale explained. “Some of her descendents continued the job, but there’s a few missing decades before Anathema picked it up again just recently. I think we inspired her, actually. There was an Archangel in Vegas when the cathedral opened, the evidence is clear.” 

“When was that, then?”

“1963.”

“Are you joking? Do you think they’ve just hung around for the last fifty years? They could be anywhere in the world by now.” 

“But there’s no indication they ever left. Something interesting--the cathedral was founded by a man named Reverend Richard Crowley.” 

Leaning over Aziraphale’s shoulder, Crowley examined the brochure Aziraphale had picked up on their way out of the church. (Crowley had wanted to check out the gift shop, but it was closed.) “Huh. No relation, I’m sure. But maybe one of the Nutter descendents recognized my name and mistook me for an Archangel. I really am quite powerful, you know.” 

“Oh, of course,” Aziraphale said, twisting around and resting his hands on Crowley’s shoulders. 

Crowley hugged him round the waist, relishing the warmth of his body. 

“My big, strong demon.” 

“Let’s go to dinner, Angel.” 

Trading his T-shirt for a navy button-down with tiny white polka dots, Crowley knotted his tie loosely around his neck. From the discard pile on the bed he collected Aziraphale’s bowtie and tied it for him. What a picture of domestic bliss. The thought made Crowley’s skin crawl, and he patted Aziraphale on the shoulder to relieve some of the awkwardness he was suddenly feeling. It didn’t help. 

They left their blazers behind, as Lakeside at the Wynn was a business-casual establishment, or so Crowley had been informed by a quick Google search. He hoped they wouldn’t mention his sunglasses. 

Returning to the lobby of the Encore, they took a walk through the building that connected the two towers. Shops lined the hall on one side, and on the other were more restaurants and a view to the courtyard which featured two of the property’s several pools. Maybe he could convince Aziraphale to go swimming with him in the morning. In his mind he pictured Aziraphale in swim trunks and nothing else, with water dripping down his chest, sparkling in the sunlight. Heat kindled in Crowley’s belly. 

Crowley was distracted from his inner musings as they passed the Wynn casino floor and he was about to wander over when Aziraphale caught his arm and gently steered him back on track. 

“My dear boy, we’re late already.”

Were they? Crowley hadn’t noticed the clock. Not that there were many in a casino hotel. He should have given them more time when he’d miracled the reservation. 

Finally, they moseyed through an umbrella-themed lounge and arrived at Lakeside, which, predictably, bordered a lake. It was manmade, of course, bordered by pines and evergreen shrubs which gave it an alpine-esque atmosphere. There was a waterfall on the opposite side, upon which the Wynn’s nightly show was projected. Crowley had planned it so they would just miss the first show, starting at dusk. Technicolor displays and gigantic singing frog statues weren’t really Crowley’s style. 

But dinner overlooking a lake felt like just the ticket. 

Crowley gave his name to the host, who led them over to their table on the patio. By that time, the sun had begun to sink behind the building, leaving the water of the Lake of Dreams dark and mysterious, reflecting the amber and yellow lights of the restaurant. Crowley leaned over the railing for a moment, inhaling the pine-scented air. He could almost believe he was really on a mountain lake, rather than in a crowded city in the American desert. 

“I feel underdressed,” Aziraphale said after Crowley sat down across from him at their little round table. 

“Knew you would say that.” Really, Aziraphale was a picture of modern urban style. He just needed to let his brilliant white hair grow a bit, and tie half of it back in a hipster bun. He would look good with a beard, Crowley decided. He wondered if it would be pale like his feathers, or darker like the hair on his forearms. 

“Why are you staring? Is there something on my face?” 

“No,” Crowley said affectionately. “I just like you.”

Aziraphale folded his hands on the table, preening a bit. 

A waiter brought menus and two glasses of water, and Crowley tried to focus on reading the wine list. He’d never been less interested in wine, or needed it more. His thoughts kept straying in random directions, and he couldn’t shake the nervousness that had been plaguing him all afternoon. They’d dined together loads of times; why did this dinner feel so bloody important? 

He knew why.  _ Crazy little thing called love… _

Under the table, Aziraphale nudged Crowley with his foot, and Crowley realized their waiter was standing over him, pencil poised over a notepad. 

“Oh, uh…” He ordered the third entree down the list and the fourth wine. 

Aziraphale ordered something that sounded fancy and complicated, and Crowley was sure he had put a tremendous amount of thought into the wine pairing. 

They sat in silence for a moment, gazing out over the lake. Crowley couldn’t recall what they usually talked about when they ate together, but he realized it didn’t matter. He was comfortable with Aziraphale, knew what he was thinking without needing to ask. Why couldn’t Crowley let himself be content? There was that old fear, that they would be caught by Heaven or Hell. That they would be taken away from each other. That Crowley wasn’t good enough for Aziraphale. 

Yet, Aziraphale had said he would fight for Crowley. The reminder was comforting, though hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. 

“Crowley, can you feel that?” Aziraphale asked, brow knitted with concern. 

“Er, what?” The heat? The breeze? “Could you be a tad more specific?” 

The angel scanned the room behind him. “It feels like… well, like you. I think there’s another demon here.” 

Suddenly on edge, Crowley let the metaphysical ambience of the area wash over him. If there was another power in the restaurant, how had he not felt it before? He’d been distracted by worry over exactly the thing he was supposed to be watching out for. Another demon around… that couldn’t bode well. 

Yes, there was something there… but not the familiar dark swirling void of a demon’s soul. This energy was bright and humming and it grated against Crowley’s senses. 

“Think you’ve got your flavours mixed up, Aziraphale. I’m sensing an angel.” 

They shared a curious look, then as one they turned in their seats to give the restaurant another sweep. Crowley didn’t spot anyone dressed conspicuously in white robes or splitting at the seams with the tell-tale gold leaf that appeared when angels wore their corporations thin. Nor did he notice any demonic familiars crouching in the hair of any of the patrons. 

“Look at those two, just on the other side of that pillar.” Aziraphale nodded his head towards them. 

Leaning around the table, Crowley strained to see past the structural support blocking his view. There were two women seated at a small table further back in the restaurant. Casual, yet elegant, one was dressed in a tan hijab over a white tunic dress with geometric patterns, and chic gold ballet pumps. The other, sitting on the far side of the table from Crowley’s angle, was the cutting edge of style in a tailored brown waistcoat and scarf and olive green slacks. Now Crowley felt underdressed. 

“I think I know her,” Aziraphale said. 

“Which one?” 

“White dress. Yes, I’m sure of it. We worked together on some blessings in Italy during the Renaissance. She’s an archangel.” 

Crowley choked on his water. “ _ Excuse me--” _

“No, I meant little-’a’, archangel. As in, second choir of the third sphere.” 

“The what now?” Crowley hadn’t bothered to learn the hierarchy when he was  _ in  _ Heaven, and he certainly didn’t remember it now. 

“Never mind that. The other woman must be the demon I sensed originally.” 

Setting down his sunglasses to get a better look, Crowley could see the flicker of their auras just on the edge of perception. The slight angelic radiance of the angel blended into the dim shadowy corona of the demon, overlapping and wrapping each other so much that it was hard to tell visually which was which. 

“What are they doing, do you reckon?” Crowley asked. 

“Well, I suppose it could be a business meeting, kind of like we used to do, with our Arrangement.” 

Crowley frowned. He didn’t remember the last time ‘business’ had motivated him to dine with the enemy. Nah, that had always been pure selfish desire on Crowley’s part. 

“Maybe they’re discussing Doomsday,” Aziraphale continued. “The main event happened rather far away from here but still, everyone knew about it. I wonder what the Americans think about it all? I’m sure there’s a good explanation-- oh, look, they’re holding hands.” 

Hiding his smirk behind his hand, Crowley followed Aziraphale’s gaze to where the two ladies were indeed holding--nay, fondling--each other’s hands, far more intimately than was proper for sworn enemies on opposite sides of the celestial divide. Crowley’s heart was aflame, burning in a sympathetic harmony. He was looking at another angel and demon pair, right across from him and Aziraphale, in the same restaurant! 

“We have to say hello!” Crowley was ready to leap out of his chair, whether Aziraphale followed or not.

“Oh, I hate to break up such a sweet moment. They probably don’t want to be disturbed.” 

Dragging Aziraphale by the brace, Crowley sauntered over to the other couple. 

He could tell the moment they noticed his eyes, because they sprung apart and gave him a look of such alarm that Crowley instantly regretted leaving his sunglasses on the table. Now that he was closer, he could see the demon’s familiar. What had looked like a furry scarf was actually a living mink, and it bared sharp little teeth at his approach. 

“Aziraphale!” The angel exclaimed, jumping to her feet. Her eyes were drawn tight with worry. 

“No, please don’t stand on my account, dear. Be not afraid, and all. We just wanted to say hello. My name is Aziraphale,” he introduced himself to the demon with a little bow, “and this is Crowley.” 

“I’ve heard of you,” the demon said, shooting a suspicious glance at Crowley. “I’m Amy.” 

“Sahra,” the angel said, eyes flickering from Crowley to Amy as if she was preparing to jump in and fight him off. Sadly, Crowley knew the feeling. He took Aziraphale’s hand, linking their fingers together, and both women stared with a glimmer of comprehension. 

“So what brings you two across the pond?” Amy asked, leaning back in her seat with her arms crossed, unsmiling. Clearly she was the prickly sort. 

“Well, actually we’re looking for someone. One of the missing Archangels, rumoured to be in the area. Maybe you’ve met them?” Aziraphale had a hopeful look on his face. 

Sahra shuddered. “Why would you want to mess with them? Aren’t Gabriel and the others enough trouble already?” Then, as if realizing she’d spoken too freely, she darted a nervous glance around the room. 

“Tell me about it,” Crowley muttered. He was starting to like these two. 

“We’re the only angel and demon assigned to Las Vegas,” Sahra explained, “but there’s almost always a few others visiting. I’ve heard whispers of an Archangel, but I’ve never gone looking, myself. It’s Barachiel, supposedly, if that helps at all.” 

Beaming, Aziraphale reached out to shake her hand. “Yes, my dear, that helps tremendously. Thank you.” 

“It must be nice, living in Vegas,” Crowley said to Amy. “Lots of easy marks for temptation. Fine dining every evening.” He wiggled his eyebrows. 

“It’s too easy, really. I don’t have to do much of anything, not that I’d ever tell management that. No offense, but you sound like a tourist.” Amy gave him a sly half-smile. 

“What gave it away? Is it the accent?” 

“Ha. No, tourists always think the locals hang out on the Strip every day, but we generally avoid it as much as possible. We’re just here for a special occasion.”

“It’s our eleven-year anniversary,” Sahra said, coming around the table to wrap her arms around Amy’s shoulders. 

“When we heard the Antichrist was born, I thought, what the Heaven, we don’t have that much time left anyway. So, I told Sahra I loved her.” 

“No, you didn’t,” Sahra argued fondly. “I told you first. Thanks for saving the world, by the way.”

Aziraphale blushed. “It was a group effort. The Antichrist turned out to be a really sweet child, actually.” 

Running his free hand through his hair, Crowley hoped the news of their numerous cock-ups along the way hadn’t made it to everyone’s ears. Better to let them think it had all gone according to their genius plan. 

“We’ll let you get back to dinner,” Aziraphale said. “Congratulations on your anniversary.” 

“Thanks. Hey, nice seeing you again. Keep in touch!” Sahra waved them goodbye as they went back to their table. 

Once their food arrived, Crowley and Aziraphale were distracted by the delicious flavours of fresh seafood and savoury roasted vegetables. Crowley had made a lucky choice; the 2005 California Chardonnay went well with swordfish, though it was hard to go wrong with such a versatile meat. Cutting a chunk of fish, Crowley reached his fork across the table and fed it to Aziraphale, whose eyes fluttered closed in delight. 

Crowley ordered dessert, not because he was still hungry, but because he loved seeing the angel’s reactions when he ate something scrumptious. They shared a hot cocoa cake, which was a chocolate cake with layers of crème fraîche drizzled with cocoa sauce. It was a bit decadent for Crowley’s taste, but Aziraphale enjoyed it with audible moans. Holy Hell, the sounds and sighs he was making had an immediate effect on Crowley, and he imagined Aziraphale making those same sounds in a different context. Such as upstairs. In their bedroom. Crowley’s trousers felt too tight. 

The angel had a smear of chocolate on his lower lip.  _ Is he doing this on purpose? _ Crowley briefly considered, then he brushed it off Aziraphale’s lip and licked it off his own thumb. He had wanted to play the slots tonight, but now he thought there were better ways they could spend their time. But Crowley didn’t know if Aziraphale was interested in that. He was a being of love; angels weren’t supposed to feel lust. 

There were quite a few things angels weren’t supposed to do that Aziraphale did anyway, Crowley mused. That’s why he liked him. 

Putting his sunglasses back in their proper place, Crowley paid the bill, and he and Aziraphale leaned on the railing overlooking the lake, arms touching. He didn’t want to push Aziraphale too fast. They couldn’t have sex on what amounted to a first date, could they?

“Why didn’t I ask you out eleven years ago?” Crowley asked. Behind them, the restaurant was starting to fill up with patrons coming in to see the first show. “Or six thousand years ago, for that matter.” 

“You did, in a way. You came up to me in the Garden. Crowley, we’ve been friends since the beginning, and I wouldn’t wish it to be any other way.” 

Aziraphale kissed him on the cheek, right on top of his tattoo which wasn’t really a tattoo. 

Across the lake, the lights of several projectors turned on, illuminating the waterfall. Crowley thought he heard the whir of machinery, and he linked his arm with Aziraphale and led him away before the garish pageant killed his fashionable heart. 

“Time to go, Angel.” 

Aziraphale smiled impishly at him. “Let’s go lose some money.” 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut begins in this chapter if you're interested, lol. Also, I would love some feedback on this one. It jumps between Aziraphale and Crowley's perspective each time the page breaks, but if it feels more like head-hopping, I can maybe make it more clear somehow. Anyway, I'd love to hear what you think.

One

The sun was down, and the casino was hopping. People were beginning to pour in for the start of a Vegas evening, and the crowd thrummed with energy. The Wynn casino floor was loud with chatter and the occasional ringing of a big payout at the slots, and in the background Aziraphale could hear some kind of rock and roll playlist, not that anyone came to listen to the music. 

Beside him, Crowley was nearly vibrating with excitement, and Aziraphale gave his hand a squeeze. What to do first? They walked around the casino and observed; 21 (blackjack, in America), craps, and slot machines were on offer in this room. According to the map the concierge had provided when they checked in, poker and baccarat were held in different rooms nearby. 

Together, they sat down at a blackjack table and changed their cash for chips, joining three others who already wore the frustrated scowls of those who were watching their chips join the dealer’s tray. Maybe it was a bad table. 

The dealer gave Crowley a hard stare, and after a moment he took off his sunglasses and hung them on the front of his shirt. Aziraphale could never resist staring at Crowley’s eyes; they were gorgeous, like polished amber, serpentine, and so expressive. Crowley kept them hidden far too often, in Aziraphale’s opinion. 

As for the dealer, she didn’t react to Crowley’s unique eyes. She’d probably seen stranger things, working on the Strip.

The players placed their initial bets. Starting with Crowley on her left, the dealer dealt one card face up to each player and one face down to herself, then dealt a second face up card to each. She checked her hole card before indicating to Crowley to take an action. 

Dealer’s up card was a two. Crowley’s hand total was eight. Tapping the felt, he took a hit, and received an eight, for a total of sixteen. Tricky. He took another hit. Seven. Bust. The dealer scooped up his chips and put his cards in the discard tray.

“You have played this game before, right?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Shut up,” Crowley glowered. 

So, Crowley was going by the seat-of-the-pants strategy. Aziraphale decided he would take a more reasonable approach, and stood on his nine and eight. 

The three people to Aziraphale’s left completed their hands--no blackjacks yet--and the dealer flipped her hole card, revealing a six. Her next card was an eight, and then a king. Well, sometimes caution pays off. All the players except Crowley got a payout on their bet. 

Aziraphale tried not to smirk at Crowley’s scowl.

They played several more rounds, and Aziraphale proved very popular at the table. Clearly, a foreign accent was social currency, and it didn’t hurt that their luck began to warm up when Aziraphale joined. (“Not my doing, I assure you,” Aziraphale told Crowley when questioned later that night.) The charming couple to his left was on vacation from Iowa, and Aziraphale was won over by their rustic friendliness. Was everyone in the US so chatty and honest, or was it just Vegas? Aziraphale found it a refreshing turn from the more aloof company of Londoners. 

An innocent enough start to the evening. Not long after they’d sat down, a waitress came over and asked the table if they wanted a drink, and within minutes she was back with a tray and a blackberry mojito for Aziraphale (with a tequila for Crowley). A refreshing, beautiful cocktail, well-crafted, which Aziraphale liked for the flavour of the fruit and the sweet tartness. 

After losing money on several more reckless bets, Crowley dipped out. Aziraphale kissed his hand before he walked away, promising to come find him soon, and stayed a while longer. Despite the house advantage, he managed to leave the table a little bit richer then when he’d begun. He tipped the dealer and stood around talking to the Iowa couple, receiving an invite to stay at their cabin if he ever visited Lake Red Rock.  _ What delightful people _ , he thought as he went to track down Crowley _ .  _

Two

_ If he wanted to play it safe, he should have played craps _ . Crowley wasn’t annoyed that the angel was better at blackjack than him.  _ He was just lucky. _ Besides, slots were more fun than table games anyway. The machines were bright and shiny and had fun pictures and flashing lights, and didn’t take any skill at all. Well, Crowley’s demonic skill of manipulating probability could certainly make the venture more profitable, but where was the fun in that? Aziraphale would call it cheating; Crowley simply disliked taking the easy way out. Had to check if the universe was still against him. 

It was. Or at least, the microcosm of Vegas wasn’t doing Crowley any favours. He won fifty bucks on the first go and slowly lost it. The machine ate his money in a flurry of cherries and watermelons and other assorted fruit that didn’t want to line up properly. Down the line, someone gave a whoop and waved their ticket in the air while their friends crowded around excitedly.  _ Bloody show-off _ . Crowley moved over to the penny slots and picked one with a vampire theme. He placed a bet and won a whole ten cents. At least the graphics were entertaining. 

Looking for a better machine to give his ten cents, Crowley ran into Aziraphale, who was carrying two drinks, one vibrant green and the other pink and blended. 

“Here, I got an apple-tini for you.” 

“Do I look like I watch  _ Sex and the City _ ?” Crowley teased, taking the proffered glass. 

“You’re thinking of the cosmopolitan, dear.” 

Crowley sat at a new machine, and Aziraphale stood next to him, resting his arm on Crowley’s shoulder. As luck would have it, Crowley’s ten cents instantly turned into ten dollars, and he kept betting until the rest of it disappeared. 

“Looks like you’re my lucky charm, Angel.”

“Keep it up, Crowley. I’ll be right back; I think I see Freddy and Karen waving at me.” 

Once again, Aziraphale faded into the crowd, and Crowley bounced around the machines until he finished his drink. 

Three

Karen wanted to play poker but was rightfully intimidated by the level of skill the rich and fancy brought to the Wynn, so she and her husband asked Aziraphale if he wanted to come with them to the poker room. Gladly he went, pleased that his new friends trusted his experience. It was a surprisingly large room with plenty of tables and several television sets showing sports games. Aziraphale led the way to a table marked with signs for low-stakes Texas Hold’em. 

People tended to assume Aziraphale was soft, a fact which he used to his advantage in certain situations. Sure, he played cautiously, only entering the pot when he had a serviceable starting hand. However, sincerity was a virtue which did not disallow a poker face, and he made good on a couple mediocre hands. The dealer was patient, and explained some of the rules to Karen and Fred, who had never played poker at a casino before. It was a good game, and Aziraphale earned modest winnings, which he considered a grand success given some of the tough competition at their table. 

At some point, another waitress came by and offered comp drinks, and Aziraphale ordered a whiskey for the sophistication. What else would a gentleman drink at a fancy resort casino? He was beginning to feel pleasantly warm and tingly inside. 

The Iowans convinced him to stay for longer, and by that time the other players had caught on to the fact that Aziraphale knew his way around a deck of cards. He played a risky hand with a dry board, and lost his bet to a player who beat his pair of kings with another pair of kings and a higher kicker. His luck couldn’t last forever, but he’d had a good run. 

Leaving Karen and Fred to check out the sports betting counter, Aziraphale made his way back to the main casino floor and spotted Crowley standing at the bar with the demon Amy. There was a pair of empty shot glasses in front of them, and when Aziraphale kissed Crowley he could taste tequila on his lips. 

“Where’s Sahra?” Aziraphale asked. 

“She’s shopping in the plaza. Doesn’t like to gamble.”

“Then she’s probably the only smart one here.” 

Amy smiled wryly. “Right. Which reminds me, I’ve lost about all I care to this evening, so I’m going to go find my wife. See you two around?” 

They said their goodbyes and Amy left the casino. Aziraphale leaned on the bar, standing so close to Crowley he was almost pressed up against him. What a tall drink of water he was, with his strong jawline and tight little hips. He’d loosened his tie at some point in the evening, and Aziraphale trailed his fingers down the small triangle of exposed skin at his throat. Maybe it was the booze, but Aziraphale was beginning to think some unholy thoughts about Crowley. 

Crowley tapped Aziraphale’s front trouser pocket, and his stack of plastic chips clicked together. “Didn’t know you were such a card sharp, Angel.” 

“I hope you aren’t implying that I would win by dishonest means.” Aziraphale put on his best ‘ _ I’m an innocent angel’  _ face, wanting nothing more than for Crowley to keep touching him. 

“You? Dishonest? Nah. I was just thinking about all those card tricks you used to play for Warlock…” 

“Hush. That was magic. Poker is a game of strategy, and I happen to be good at reading people.” 

“Oh, really?” Crowley leaned in and whispered in his ear, “Then what am I thinking right now?” 

_ Oh good Lord. _ Aziraphale swallowed thickly and braced himself against the bar counter. He wasn’t exactly a pro at flirting; he tended to take things too literally, but Crowley’s meaning couldn’t be clearer. Aziraphale wasn’t new to sex, but sex with Crowley… Shouldn’t they wait? Shouldn’t there be rose petals, or soft candlelight, or something? 

“Do you want to check out the Encore casino?”  _ Before we go to bed? _ Aziraphale fiddled with Crowley’s tie. 

“Whatever you like, Angel.” 

Four

Cashing their chips before they left, Crowley and Aziraphale headed back through the esplanade. Crowley certainly didn’t need Aziraphale’s help to balance as they walked from the Wynn to the Encore side of the resort. No, he just liked holding his hand. If the floor was uneven, well that was hardly Crowley’s fault, was it? 

There were a few people still checking out the shops, which were only open for another half hour anyway. Crowley made a mental note to swing by in the morning, check if there was anything worth seeing. He wanted a new waistcoat, one that was as cool as Amy’s and had a matching pocket square. What was the point of a pocket square? It looked nice, but meant nothing, as far as Crowley knew, not like a handkerchief in the back pocket… 

He didn’t know if Aziraphale was picking up what he was putting down, but maybe it was better if he wasn’t. They should take it easy. Didn’t need to rush things. They had the rest of their immortal lives to take the next step, though Crowley hoped it wouldn’t take quite that long. But he couldn’t deny this wasn’t the first time he’d thought about taking Aziraphale to bed. Hadn’t there always been a spark between them? 

Distracted with his thoughts, Crowley almost didn’t notice when they reached the Encore casino floor. It was much the same as the Wynn, except with more butterflies. Crowley trailed behind the angel, picking up two more drinks as they took a spot around the edge of a craps table. Aziraphale joined in, making a place bet on eight, while Crowley chose to sit back and watch. Craps was exciting and didn’t take a great deal of skill, so the crowd around the table was in varying stages of inebriation from tipsy to stumbling. 

Crowley followed the game with mild interest, but mostly he watched Aziraphale. He was surprised at how comfortable the angel was at the gaming tables. It was obvious he was well-versed in gambling strategy, but he was clearly in it for fun rather than profit. Still, Aziraphale had been surprising Crowley for six thousand years. He should expect it by now. 

He finished his drink, hardly noticing what it was as he knocked it back. Aziraphale took his turn as the shooter and sevened out on a pass bet. 

“You’re supposed to blow on the dice before you roll,” Crowley offered helpfully. 

When Aziraphale’s turn rolled around again, he picked up the dice and offered them up to Crowley, who blew on them, feeling like a beautiful woman in a James Bond film. Did that make Aziraphale double-oh-seven? Just add a flaming sword to the secret agent’s collection of gadgets… 

Five

Once again, Aziraphale meandered to the counter and exchanged his chips before taking Crowley’s arm and heading out to the lobby. They took a seat in an upscale lounge which opened onto one of Encore’s pools, which was brilliantly lit with underwater lighting despite the pool having closed when the sun went down. A pair of pianists were winding down their show, and Aziraphale listened to the last couple pieces, pleased to see such a young audience participating in classical music. 

“Hey, Angel, have any money left? Wanna request a song.” 

Pulling a generous tip from his mediocre winnings, Aziraphale pressed it into Crowley’s hand and watched with some concern as he wobbled over to the pianos. He was swaying more than usual, which Aziraphale only noticed because he was worried he would fall over, not because he liked the way Crowley rolled his hips with every step. Of course.

He took a look at the drink menu and ordered two of the Wynn’s signature drinks while Crowley came back and the pianos started up their duet in the background. They traded off lines in a complex melody--Aziraphale was sure he’d heard it before but couldn’t name the song--before they broke into lyrics. 

Flopping into his seat, Crowley put his feet up on the empty chair next to Aziraphale.

_ “Oh darling, darling, darling; Walk a while with me.”  _

A waitress brought their drinks, pretty pale yellow in a tall glass with a lime and salt on the rim. He raised his glass and toasted Crowley, not needing to say anything. 

_ “Many times I've lied, and many times I've listened; Many times I've wondered how much there is to know.”  _

It wasn’t really a dancing song, or bar, and Aziraphale only knew one dance anyway, but he wanted to take Crowley in his arms and swing him around the dance floor. Too bad the gavotte wasn’t in style anymore, or ballroom dance, but it would be more than enough to hold and sway or whatever people did these days. 

_ “Many is a word that only leaves you guessing; Guessing 'bout a thing you really ought to know.”  _

Aziraphale was teetering on the thin edge between comfortably tipsy and comprehensively rat arsed. Should he have another drink? Crowley was looking at him with mellow eyes, and he felt as if something was falling together, falling into place.

_ “I really ought to know.”  _

Applause broke out for the two pianists, who stood and bowed, before another request was put in, some other rock and roll thing that Aziraphale only vaguely recognized. He squinted up at the ceiling, trying to figure out if the chandeliers were spinning or if it was just his imagination. Maybe it was a feature. 

“Darling, will you get me a glass of wine?”

? 

“Huh?” Crowley asked. He’d been staring at Aziraphale’s hands. Pretty hands. Big, man hands. When had they finished their drinks? 

“Wine? Something chilled, maybe. I’m getting a little flushed.” 

That he was. Pink undertones showed under Aziraphale’s dark brown skin, his cheeks rosy. He was so lovely. Crowley propped his chin on his hands and stared at the angel.

“Crowley?” 

“Yes?”

“Er. Shall I get us the wine, then?”

Oh, right, that. “No, let me.” He tottered over to the bar and asked the bartender for two glasses of Chard, chilled. The piano was carrying him away on its gentle melody. 

The wine was icy. He set down Aziraphale’s glass, careful not to spill, and sat across from him. 

“Hey. We should sneak into the pool tonight.” They could just walk out there. It wasn’t guarded or anything. 

“No. Don’t wanna get kicked out on the first night, Crowley.” 

He liked when Aziraphale said his name. Made him feel grounded, reminded him he was alive. Crowley laughed; the image of an angel getting kicked out of a casino in Sin City was uproariously funny. 

“Wouldn’t want that. Haven’t had a chance to break in those beds upstairs…” 

Aziraphale choked on his drink, and Crowley blushed at his own boldness. Was he laying it on too thick? Maybe he should back off. 

But then Aziraphale reached for his hand, sliding it into Crowley’s palm and brushing his knuckles with his thumb. The room tilted a bit. 

“Do you want to go for a walk?” 

“Yeah, lemme just…” Crowley gulped the rest of his wine.

“Good Lord, I didn’t mean right this second.” 

This walk better be straight back to their room, then. 

Aziraphale finished his glass at a more leisurely pace, and then they walked out poolside. The night air was warm and a slight breeze ruffled the surface of the water. Crowley wanted to dip his feet in, but bending down to take off his shoes sounded like a dangerous task. Just considering it made him lose his balance, and he clutched Aziraphale’s arm to stay more or less upright. 

The tequila was really hitting him. Or was it the margarita? How much had he had to drink? 

Aziraphale leaned over and kissed him, and he felt squishy inside. All pressed up against the angel’s soft body, the angel who held him steady while the world gently spun around them. Crowley could see stars, but were they in their usual place up in the sky or bursting behind his eyes? There was something about the stars that made him ache, or maybe it was the way Aziraphale was running his hands up and down his chest, kissing him open-mouthed and sensuous. 

Though he was aroused, and not thinking clearly, Crowley realized they couldn’t get it on in full view of the entire Encore resort (yet there was something sinfully appealing about the idea…) so he took a step back from Aziraphale, a distance that felt like miles. 

He traced Aziraphale’s lips with his thumb. “Forget about the walk, Angel, let’s go upstairs.” 

?

Aziraphale took a pair of water bottles from the mini-fridge and passed one to Crowley, who was sitting on the bed at a forty-five degree angle. Aziraphale was parched, and the water was refreshing. When was the last time he’d had water? Where did they get their water in the desert? 

_ Focus, Aziraphale _ , he told himself sternly. Crowley was waiting for him. Waiting to--he was taking off his tie. Then he kicked off his boots, and--skinny ankles. He had cute feet. He was cute all over, really. Stunning. Those eyes, golden and snakelike. Aziraphale wanted to see all of him. 

It was two steps to the bed, but Aziraphale couldn’t make it without stumbling. He fell into Crowley, who caught him around the waist and steadied him. Standing over him, looking into his gorgeous eyes, Aziraphale felt content, complete. He loved this demon, this Romeo, this rose by any other name; what could possibly be more right, more healing, than opposites coming together in trust and devotion? 

He no longer feared the ire of their opposing households; Aziraphale had already fallen, and what was a Fall in comparison to falling into the arms of his best friend? His love. 

Cupping Crowley’s cheek, he brought their mouths together with rough passion. They fit together so easily, as if they had been made for each other, and maybe they were.  _ Ineffable… _ His red hair was soft, and Aziraphale wound his fingers in it, caressing, guiding his head into position so he could devour him… 

Fingers trailing down Aziraphale’s throat, Crowley removed his bowtie and started to unbutton his shirt. It was taking too long for Aziraphale’s liking; Crowley squinted at the buttons as he worked each one individually, but Aziraphale craved the hot press of skin on skin, he wanted Crowley underneath him, naked and writhing. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale took Crowley’s hands, intending to miracle away their clothing, but couldn’t figure out how. He reached for the swirling grace inside himself, and shivered as power erupted on his skin, but his head was too foggy to guide it.  _ Clothes, off _ , he ordered silently. Nothing happened. 

“Oh fuck,” Crowley whispered, and only then did Aziraphale notice how Crowley was reacting to his angelic energy. He drew in short, shallow breaths, and clutched Aziraphale with shaking hands. He was hard; trousers tented over his strained erection, knees spread so invitingly. Aziraphale looked at him in awe. 

“Angel, what are you doing?”

“Trying to get our clothes off, what do you think?” He lifted Crowley’s chin and planted a line of kisses down his throat. His pale flesh was soft and perfect, unblemished, undefiled, but not for much longer. Aziraphale fumbled with the ridiculous buttons of Crowley’s shirt--why did they have to make buttons so complicated?--and sunk his teeth into his collarbone. With another surge of power he tried to whisk the shirt fully off, but only succeeded in changing it from navy to red. 

Crowley moaned. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s driving me  _ wild,  _ Aziraphale.” 

“Just take it off. Now, please.” 

Leaning heavily on the wall next to the bed, Aziraphale managed with some difficulty to shed his garments while Crowley did the same in front of him. He needed a handrail or something; Aziraphale was so floored by Crowley’s beauty that he almost couldn’t stand up, he was so hard, he couldn’t wait a moment longer. Crowley was thin and lanky, and had a trail of hair running down the middle of his belly like a seam, leading to glorious dark curls at the base of his cock. The wings of his hip bones were defined, and Aziraphale wanted to take a bite. 

“Ssssit, Angel.” Crowley tapped the foot of the bed, licking his lips with a snakelike tongue. Had it been forked like that a moment ago? The details were hazy. All Aziraphale knew was that he needed more of Crowley, could never get enough. He sat down and Crowley dropped to his knees in front of him. A warm hand enclosed Aziraphale’s cock, and Crowley kissed and nipped his soft inner thighs as he stroked him up and down. He felt like he was floating, head whirling with the effects of liquor, body on fire everywhere Crowley touched him. 

Crowley’s hot mouth descended on his erection, and Aziraphale groaned in agonized approval. His lips were warm, the inside of his mouth wet and slick, and he rolled the head of Aziraphale’s cock between the two halves of his tongue. It felt  _ Heavenly _ . 

“Oh God, Crowley.” He threaded his fingers in Crowley’s hair, gently pressing him deeper. That  _ tongue _ , prehensile and dextrous, flicked and swirled down his length. Crowley was magnificent, with his red hair bobbing between Aziraphale’s thighs, strings of spit dripping from his pretty little mouth as he swallowed Aziraphale’s cock to the base. 

“Look at me,” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley met his gaze. His slit pupils were dilated so they were almost round, making him look catlike. He licked Aziraphale from base to tip, showing off his bifurcated tongue, sending waves of pleasure, warm and delicious, flickering through his body. Crowley stroked Aziraphale with one hand and sucked him in a steady rhythm, all gentle, insistent pressure, driving Aziraphale mad. 

“Darling, stop, I’m so close, I want…” 

Crowley laid his head on Aziraphale’s knee and wiped the saliva off his chin, still looking at him with lust-blown eyes. 

“Lie down for me, Crowley.” 

All ungainly limbs and uncoordinated movement, Crowley wiggled into bed and turned over onto his back. He looked so vulnerable with his legs spread like that, showing off every inch of his body. Aziraphale felt pride swell in his chest, that Crowley trusted him enough to bare himself, lying supine before him. 

Head spinning, he had to try twice before he was able to heave his legs into the bed, and he knelt between Crowley’s legs. He wanted to make Crowley feel good, could feel the weight of his desire. Pushing his knees back slightly, Aziraphale set his thumbs in the spot where Crowley’s legs met his arse and massaged from inner thigh to outer edge. He squeezed those tight muscles, kneading gentle circles until Crowley relaxed against the pillows with a contented sigh. 

Aziraphale laid on his belly and wrapped his arms under Crowley’s legs, resting his hands on his sharply defined hip bones. He kissed his thigh and arse before passing his tongue over Crowley’s hole, causing the demon to gasp and cant his hips toward him. Starting with circles and wide, flat strokes, Aziraphale worked Crowley’s anus until he was panting and squirming. The sounds Aziraphale made with his mouth and tongue were delicious, even to his own ears. Wet, and sloppy, and raw, punctuated with Crowley’s sighs. 

He snaked a hand down Crowley’s arse and sucked his finger before pushing it into Crowley, waiting for him to relax before going in all the way. Delicately he probed in and out, crooking his finger to stimulate Crowley’s prostate. 

“Fuck, Angel,” Crowley moaned, lifting his hips. Aziraphale added a second finger and continued his steady thrusting. 

“Do you like it?”

Making a sound deep in the back of his throat, Crowley said, “Yes. Oh Aziraphale, I want more. Please.” 

_ So greedy _ , Aziraphale thought appreciatively. He was hot and throbbing all over, and desired nothing more than to fuck Crowley’s arse, to claim him as his own. But he needed to lube things up first; he couldn’t risk hurting him. Again, Aziraphale reached inside himself for that tight coil of power and concentrated on shaping reality to his will. It should have been easy; conjuring lube was a minor task at best, but he was distracted by Crowley’s pleasure, by his own need, by the high blood alcohol content that made mental coordination especially difficult. 

“Oh, shit!” Crowley exclaimed, grabbing a fistful of blanket and thrusting back against Aziraphale’s fingers. “That feels so good, what’re you doing down there?” 

“Trying to work a miracle.” Aziraphale growled, utterly losing his train of thought, and laved his tongue over Crowley’s perineum. 

Breathlessly, helplessly, Crowley laughed. “S’not going to take a miracle to make me come.” 

“Not what I meant. I want to fuck you.” 

“Nngk, yes. I’m not going to last much longer if you keep doing--that!” 

Aziraphale had generated another shimmer of power, and this time he sent it into Crowley, whose flesh broke out in goosebumps. His cock was dripping pre-cum, his eyes were hazy and unfocused. Disheveled. Debauched. 

Sitting up on his knees, Aziraphale laid his hands on Crowley’s hips and sent tendrils of psychic energy into him, stimulating him from the inside. Who would have known that angelic grace was capable of such an amorous enterprise? Below him, Crowley writhed and pleaded for more, chest heaving. He stroked his cock while Aziraphale watched, continuing with the low-intensity power surge. 

“Please--I can’t--Zira, if you’re gonna fuck me do it now. I want to--I need to feel you inside me, Angel, please.” 

There was no way he could refuse a request like that. With a Herculean effort, Aziraphale focused his mind long enough to miracle a generous quantity of lube onto his erection, and he toyed with Crowley, dragging the tip of his cock over his anus. 

Breathtaking. Crowley was absolutely breathtaking, splayed out for Aziraphale, cock rigid against his belly. He was looking at Aziraphale, silently pleading, limbs quivering, riding the edge of orgasm. 

“Sweetheart.” Aziraphale felt his pulse quicken, and he slid into Crowley, who came with a lustful cry, muscles clenching around Aziraphale’s cock.

“Ohfuckholyshit,” Crowley gasped. His belly glistened with ejaculate, into which Aziraphale dipped his finger, bringing it to his mouth and slowly sucking it clean. 

“Angel, you’ve killed me. I must be dead and gone back to Heaven, or else I’m dreaming.”

“Are you having a good dream, my dear?” 

“Yes, you gallant, you know I am. Come here.” He reached up and cupped the back of Aziraphale’s neck, pulling him in for a searing kiss. 

With soft movements, Aziraphale rocked his hips into Crowley’s arse, taking it easy on him, knowing he must be sensitive after such a vigorous orgasm. He felt so hot and tight around Aziraphale’s aching cock. So astoundingly beautiful, opening himself up for Aziraphale, sharing himself, physically and spiritually. 

“Keep going. Want to feel you,” Crowley said, breath tickling Aziraphale’s ear. 

Fervently, Aziraphale complied, plunging into Crowley again and again, working himself up to the height of passion. His climax built, electric sensations pulsing through his cock, making his thighs and belly tighten until finally he came, burying himself in Crowley and riding the euphoric flood of his orgasm. He felt warm and weightless, anchored to the Earth only by the touch of his lover’s skin. 

Crowley clung to him as their breathing calmed, and he nuzzled Aziraphale’s neck. Eventually, Aziraphale realized the trembling he felt was actually Crowley shivering. He was so thin; with the AC cranked up, he was probably uncomfortably chilly. In one graceless movement, he rolled off Crowley and drew the blankets out from under them, wrapping them both up in the plush comforter. 

Pulling Crowley in close against his chest, Aziraphale let exhaustion overcome him. Feeling boozy and completely satisfied, he drifted into sleep to the sound of Crowley’s even breathing and steady heartbeat. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sorry for never updating. Life happened. But here's more! Thanks for your patience!

When Crowley woke up the next morning, it took him several moments to realize exactly where he was and exactly who he was cuddled up against. Naked. He was in that murky state of half-sleep where the hangover hadn’t quite hit him yet and the bed still seemed to be tilting slightly, or maybe his eyes were just having trouble focusing. Aziraphale was pressed against Crowley’s back with one arm slung over his side, warming him from head to feet, and Crowley never wanted to move again. He could hibernate here, content, until the sun went out. 

But as he drifted back into consciousness, a wave of nausea rolled over him and he pressed his face into the bed to stop the  _ blasted  _ room from spinning. He could manage not to throw up. Probably. Besides, getting out of bed might dispel the dream.

Had he actually slept with Aziraphale?

Certainly felt like it. 

_ Don’t freak out. _

“Crowley? Are you awake?” Aziraphale murmured. His voice was deep and husky with sleep. 

“More or less.”

“How are you doing?” 

“Oh, good, you know me, just cracking on. Jolly as always. They have fantastic weather here, don’t you think?” 

“Crowley.” 

He turned to face Aziraphale, a disorienting motion that made him feel like he kept turning even when he was lying perfectly still. The angel was so soft, and the expression in his eyes was soft, and he made Crowley’s heart go soft. Was he really allowed this kind of happiness? 

“Maybe we should have sobered up,” Crowley said, hesitant.

“I didn’t even think about it. Had more important things on my mind.” Playfully, he touched Crowley’s nose with his forefinger. 

_ Disgusting. Saccharine.  _ Crowley couldn’t help but smile. “Well, I’m thinking about it now. I’d offer to take you to brunch except I might vomit if I move.” 

A queasy grimace crossed Aziraphale’s face. “Urgh. We’re celestial. We can just miracle the hangover away.” 

“Be my guest.” 

Angelic power tickled Crowley’s skin, and he shivered with delight. It was like being caressed from the inside out; completely wrong but exquisitely stimulating. Even better was the feeling of the hangover lifting. His stomach uncramped and  _ finally _ he regained his sense of balance. 

“Thanks, Angel. You’re the top.” He clicked his teeth. 

It was an obvious play on words, but it made Aziraphale laugh anyway. What had Crowley done right, to deserve a partner who laughed at his corny jokes? Who cured his hangovers and kept him warm at night? Maybe it was karmic payment for saving the world. Whatever it was, Crowley hoped it would never end. 

“What was that you said about brunch?” 

“Patience is a virtue, Aziraphale. I’ll take you out but I have to shower first, at least. Can’t go out in public looking like this.” 

“You look nice. Cozy.” 

“Nah, my hair’s all droopy.” Crowley didn’t actually care how he looked. He just wanted to get Aziraphale in the shower with him. “You know, it’d be a real shame to waste water in the desert…” 

“Better be quick then.” 

Did Aziraphale just hide the faintest smirk? Crowley narrowed his eyes. “But what if I need help…” Where was he going with this? “Washing my hair.”  _ Genius, Crowley.  _

Luckily, Aziraphale was forgiving. “Then you’re a lost cause, dear boy. But I’ll gladly shower with you if you want me to.” 

Carefully, Crowley rolled out of bed and stretched, checking over his shoulder to see if Aziraphale was watching. ‘Course he was. And he looked like he liked what he saw. Crowley was almost sad to leave the snug cocoon of blankets and pillows, but then Aziraphale followed him and he forgot about such material concerns. 

The bathroom was ornate, with white marble tiles and white walls. A mirror took up half the wall, and Crowley observed several rosy bite marks on his reflection. There was a bathtub (Crowley tried not to think of his embarrassing conversation with Ligur from the day before--hopefully Aziraphale had heard none of it) and a freestanding glass-walled shower. It was… rather small, now that Crowley took a good look at it. Definitely not enough room for two adult human-shaped beings to stand in without extensive physical contact. 

Turning the shower on, Crowley stepped in backwards and Aziraphale immediately pressed him up against the cold tiled wall. Crowley leaned his head back, warming up quickly from the spray of water and Aziraphale’s delicate kisses, which he planted in a line from Crowley’s jaw to his collarbone. Under those pliable lips, Crowley’s skin felt at once soothed and ignited. He remembered how gentle Aziraphale had been with him last night, how his hands had massaged and stroked and carried him into ecstasy. Opening himself up to psychic forces, he let Aziraphale’s aura wash over him. It was a familiar comfort, not the blazing radiance of other angels, more like a candle left on the windowsill to guide him home at night. 

He lifted Aziraphale’s jaw and kissed him lightly, soft as rose petals. The angel was delectable, all supple flesh and thick curves and firm muscle. Water ran down his chest and Crowley wanted to drink it off him. He licked a stripe up the center of his chest and kissed the base of his throat. With one hand, he played with Aziraphale’s nipple, and the tiny nub of tissue became erect under his touch. Aziraphale sighed.

Crowley dropped to his knees. 

Who had said what about wasting water in the desert? 

After, they toweled off and went back into the bedroom, and Crowley searched for his clothes. Pants, trousers, and… hadn’t he started off the evening in a navy shirt? He miracled himself into a black button up with grey slacks. Briefly, he considered a blazer (he had to look his best if Amy was going to be his fashion competition) but decided against it. Didn’t want to be swooning under the desert sun. Well, maybe it’d be worth it if Aziraphale was there to catch him… 

Crowley tried not to tap his feet as Aziraphale dressed the hard way, digging through his bag until he found his usual ensemble of white shirt and tan trousers with a matching waistcoat. They were just about ready to leave, except for one thing.

“Have you seen my sunglasses?” 

They’d fallen under the desk. Aziraphale picked them up and put them on Crowley, following up with a swift peck on the lips.  _ A demon could get used to this. _

Taking him by the hand, Crowley led him out of the Encore tower and they walked southwards down the pavement. Las Vegas Boulevard was long, and the day was already hot, but Crowley didn’t plan to walk the whole thing in one go. 

Towards the south edge of the Wynn block, they passed the outer edge of the Lake of Dreams. Though it couldn’t be seen from the street, the greenery surrounding it was towering. Well-manicured spruce and fir trees wanted to spread their drooping branches over the street, but held back for fear of being clipped. Crowley inspected them with an appreciative eye; nice, obedient trees. Maybe he’d get a baby spruce for his flat back home. 

It was a sunny, blue October day, with a brisk enough breeze to make the heat more comfortable. The eclectic assortment of architectural styles along the Strip was intriguing to say the least. Behind them rose the modern golden-bronze towers of the Wynn resorts, and in front lay the Italian Renaissance motif of the Palazzo and the Venetian. Crowley stepped curiously over to the pools in front of the Venetian hotel, which offered gondola rides. 

“When was the last time you were in Venice, Angel?” He tucked Aziraphale under his arm.

“Must be going on a century, I suppose.” 

“Let me take you back someday.” 

They continued their tour of the Strip, and Crowley’s mind raced with a lifetime of things he wanted to do with Aziraphale. The ideas came so easily; he hadn’t realized how much work his subconscious had been putting into this over the years. Gondola rides in Venice, tours of wineries in Tuscany, strolling across the Charles Bridge in Prague at sunset. And there were the stars, ones made by Archangels in Heaven so long ago, and others that predated their meager six thousand year existence. Crowley yearned to explore what the ever-evolving world had to offer, and he wanted to do it with his angel beside him. 

After the immaculate cerulean pools of the Venetian, they passed a replica of Madame Tussauds, though they elected not to go in. 

“The real thing is uncanny enough,” Aziraphale commented. “Feels like they might move when you’re not watching them.” 

It was about a mile south of the Wynn when they passed the Fountains of Bellagio, still on the wrong side of the road to see it properly, and then finally they arrived at the hotel Paris, where they sat down at a cafe in view of the Eiffel Tower. Crowley picked a table on the patio, and held out Aziraphale’s chair for him with a slight feeling of nostalgia. Of course, it was nothing like the real Paris; he’d sipped wine at enough sidewalk bistros to know the difference. Especially in the countryside, where the air smelled sweet and the musical sound of the French language lilted out from every window, and time seemed to move more slowly. 

Where had the last eleven years gone? And to think, it all could have ended before he’d had a chance to kiss Aziraphale.

_ Satan help me, I’m going soft, _ Crowley growled to himself. Maybe it was the threat of the world ending, or maybe it was guilt over excising Ligur’s immortality, but Crowley felt frantic with the need to experience life with his beloved partner, before something happened to take it all away from him. 

Not for the first time, Crowley wondered how Aziraphale could seem so undaunted in the face of the rest of their lives. Crowley hoped it would be the rest of their lives, anyway. He wished he could borrow some of the angel’s self-assurance. 

They ordered coffee with their brunch, and ate in the exhaust-aromaed air in the company of several other hungover groups of late-night revellers. This time, neither of them had crepes, but Crowley thought back to the day he’d rescued Aziraphale from decapitation during the French Revolution. Foolish angel had been walking around in fancy dress, practically sticking his neck out. Was that when Crowley had fallen in love with him? Or was it later, when they met again in London, the only time his sweet angel had ever refused him something, and even then… 

“Hey, I was thinking,” Crowley said, swallowing thickly, “whatever happens from now on, with Heaven and Hell, with the Archangels, and everything…” He poked at his fruit with his fork. “I’ll always be here for you. To help you, and you know, kick Michael’s arse if I have to.” 

Aziraphale said nothing, but his eyes glistened with feeling. 

“But you’re the one with the sword, so if she really does come for us maybe I’ll let you have the first go.” 

That made Aziraphale laugh, and he brushed his thumb over Crowley’s knuckles. 

Maybe Crowley wasn’t half-bad at this whole romance thing. 

The restaurant staff had cleared their plates, and they were enjoying a last cup of coffee when Crowley remembered. “I nearly forgot to mention--Amy talked to me last night, while you were playing poker. She said she and Sahra noticed a powerful aura centering on the Bellagio the last few times they walked by, but they never went to investigate on account of the old, ehhh…” 

“Secret, forbidden romance, you mean?”

One corner of Crowley’s lip curved up in a grin. “Yeah, that. Might be worth checking out.” 

The Bellagio was right across the street, so after brunch Crowley and Aziraphale went downstreet to the crosswalk, and then they were finally able to see the stunning steel blue waters of the Fountains of Bellagio. At that early-ish hour, the vast lake was still. The water show would start later in the afternoon and run until midnight. Crowley thought he wouldn’t mind seeing it, as long as they didn’t pick one of the obnoxious songs in their playlist. If he had to listen to  _ My Heart Will Go On  _ with Aziraphale standing next to him he might just bolt. 

But the plan, ephemeral as it was, was to check out the hotel and scan for the aura of an Archangel. There were only two towers and about 450,000 square metres of combined floor space. Should be fine. 

“Shall we start with the lobby?” Crowley suggested. 

Rounding the south end of the lake, they made their way up Bellagio Drive toward what Crowley supposed must be the front entrance. Upon entering the lobby, his eye was immediately drawn to the intricate glass flower sculpture hanging from the ceiling. Round, colourful flowers in reds and greens and blues drooped down towards the floor, backlit by the skylight. Crowley stood directly under it and looked up, experiencing a dizzying feeling as if he was looking down at a garden from a great height. 

“Smell an Archangel?” he asked absently. The sculpture appeared to have different colours when he looked at it from a different angle. 

“There’s something…” Aziraphale was looking around, eyes glowing with a white heat. Crowley wondered if any of the humans noticed, and if he should get the angel a pair of sunglasses before they were clocked. “A sort of divine residuum. Did Amy say anything more specific about where we might find them?” 

“No. She and Sahra never came near in case it was someone who might cause trouble for them. Heh, imagine if we burst in on Sandalphon getting his feet trimmed at the spa.” 

Aziraphale shuddered. “Somehow I doubt Sandalphon makes use of corporeal grooming services.” He paused and stood close to Crowley in the midst of the bustling lobby. “We have to find an Archangel here. I know this endeavour is somewhat… ill-defined, but I don’t know what else to do to ensure the future of the Earth. Maybe this is just absurd, that is, there’s no guarantee--” 

“Can’t back out now, Angel. Besides, life would be too easy if all our plans were spelled out for us.” 

“Wouldn’t hurt to have a little guidance now and again.”

With a gentlemanly half-bow, Crowley offered his hand. Aziraphale accepted, eyes flickering, mouth turning up in that shy affectionate smile that Crowley loved so much. He would do anything for that smile. 

Making a decision on the fly, Crowley brought Aziraphale to the garden, the Bellagio Conservatory which lay across the lobby from the entrance. Unique floral displays were housed in a soaring atrium which filled the grand room with natural light. Currently, the display was autumn-themed, and the flowers in varying shades of orange, red, and yellow looked soft enough to lay on. Crowley recognized chrysanthemums, asters and goldenrods, cotoneaster, roses, prairie dropseed, and his favourite: fountain grass, with its reddish stems and fluffy tails. 

The magnificent garden was like the bouquet he had brought for Aziraphale forever ago, only on a scale large enough to stand inside. 

As well as flowers, there were sculptures and statues representing autumn characters and motifs, all decorated with or incorporating the blossoms in some way. Also, there were pumpkins. Big ol’ round ones. Crowley liked those. 

Strolling around the paths to look at the garden from every side, Crowley became aware of the same traces of power that Aziraphale had felt in the lobby. It seemed to emanate from everywhere at once; if there was a source, he couldn’t get a fix on it. But now that he’d noticed it, he couldn’t shut it off. Rolling his shoulders in slight discomfort, Crowley cast out feelers anyway, but it was like standing in a field during a thunderstorm. His skin prickled, body instinctively reacting with fear to a strong angelic presence that he could neither see nor hear. 

Aziraphale’s eyes were glowing white again, and despite his focused stare, Crowley knew he wasn’t looking at the flowers. 

“They’re coming,” Aziraphale said darkly.

“Try that again, this time with even more ominous foreboding, why don’t you.” 

Slowly, the Conservatory emptied of hotel guests as if each one of them decided at the same time that they had better things to attend to. Meanwhile, the weight of the angelic power increased, and Crowley struggled to draw in a deep enough breath. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Beside him, Aziraphale’s outline was shimmering, and Crowley wasn’t sure if he was going to pass out or if Aziraphale was close to manifesting his true form in this fragile reality. Probably both, if it came to it. 

Sound ceased, except for Crowley’s own heartbeat, which seemed to thud throughout his body like a drum. The chrysanthemums looked like drops of blood in the flower beds. When had his wings popped out? Crowley didn’t know, but now they were half-spread in a fighting stance. 

His field of vision started to narrow. 

His pulse rushed in his ears. 

“FOR SATAN’S SAKE!” Crowley roared. “Would you can it with the Biblical crap?!” 

And then the potential energy in the room dropped, and Crowley swayed on his feet, flaring his wings for balance. He could hear again; chatter drifted in from the busy lobby but still no one else entered the Conservatory. Feathers fluttered, and Crowley saw that Aziraphale had also let out his wings, which he was holding in a deceivingly casual dropped position. Punching posture. They were ready for a fight. 

Though, the man who stepped into the garden looked decidedly non-threatening. He was a white man somewhere north of retirement age, with a bald spot on his head and a cane in his hand. Clearly a gardener, he wore jeans and a plaid shirt and a dirt-stained green apron. At least, that’s how he chose to look on the outside. 

Underneath his corporal form was the incandescent glow of angelic grace. 

_ Archangel. _

Aziraphale conjured a bench in front of one of the flower beds, and he sat down warily while the Archangel made himself at home. Feeling restless and disturbed, Crowley roamed up and down the path. He couldn’t get his feathers to lie flat. 

“Did you like my little show? That’s how we used to appear to the humans, back in the old days. It’s not like that anymore, though. Wheels of fire and multitudes of eyes just aren’t the fashion these days, I’m afraid.” The Archangel’s voice was strong and mellow despite his apparent age. He had a flat, American accent. 

“Yes, it was quite… extraordinary,” Aziraphale said politely. “But you see, we’ve been looking for you, my friend and I. My name is Aziraphale, and this is Crowley. We wondered if you might help us.”

Crowley flashed the peace sign in greeting and walked further down the path. A voice in the back of his mind whispered  _ danger,  _ repeating it over and over like the beat of his heart. 

“I’m Barachiel, but you already knew that, didn’t you?” 

“I expected to find you in the Guardian Angel Cathedral.”

“Oh, I was there for a while after it opened. It’s a nice little place, but people don’t come all the way to Las Vegas to attend Mass. Wasn’t much for me to do, and I like to keep busy. So I became the chief landscape architect for Caesars Palace during the late sixties, and I’ve been growing flowers on the Strip ever since. Now don’t get me wrong, I can’t claim all the credit, but I had some influence over the decision to build the Conservatory here at the Bellagio. Nice, isn’t it?” 

“Er, yes, very nice.” Aziraphale shot a frustrated glance at Crowley, who pretended not to notice. “But, we have this little problem--”

“I leave most of the design and planting to the humans on the team. They really are quite creative. Nothing like us angels when we helped cultivate the Earth, of course, but they do well enough. Every season we design a new exhibit; new colours, new sculptures--oh, and we replant the old stuff so it doesn’t go to waste.” 

“That’s very thoughtful. I’m happy to see a fellow angel doing the good work, but, um, I don’t know if you are aware, but a little more than a month ago the Apocalypse--” 

Barachiel interrupted as if he’d only heard half of Aziraphale’s words. “Oh, you flatter me, but the truth is I hardly had anything to do with it. The landscaping team doesn’t need my angelic influence to take care of Mother Earth; they do it all on their own. I’m quite proud of them, as a matter of fact.” 

Aziraphale made a palm-up gesture to Crowley, asking for help. Shrugging, Crowley backed up several more feet. There was a wooden barrel lying on its side with flowers spilling out of it.  _ Huh, neat. _

Why was his heart racing? 

“Right, so like I was saying, the Apocalypse almost happened, but we prevented it, with some help, but the thing is--”

“Mostly, I take care of the bigger picture aspects of maintaining the Botanical Gardens and the grounds. But, I’m a gardener at heart. Don’t feel right when I’m not getting my hands dirty in the flower beds, so they let me take care of the roses. They’re all mine, the roses, that is. I start them in my greenhouse at home and when the time comes, I replant them here.” 

“That really is a fascinating story.” Aziraphale’s patience was wearing thin; Crowley could see it in the hard set of his shoulders, the way he held his hands clasped stiffly in his lap. Crowley might have found the situation hilarious, if not for the overbearing sense of unease. 

“Barachiel, we need your help. The other angels weren’t pleased that we stopped Doomsday; they wanted a war. We need you and the other Archangels back in Heaven, so you can tell Michael, Gabriel, and Uriel--there doesn’t have to be a war!” 

Contemplative, the Archangel picked at some dirt under his nail. “You think they would listen to me? I’m just an old groundskeeper.” 

“But you’ve lived on Earth, right? You said you were proud of the humans. So you must have seen firsthand that they’re capable of wonderful things. The other Archangels are so focused on their grudge against Hell that they would risk the entire world to settle the old score. We can stop it, but I’m just a Principality. You’re an Archangel.” 

Aziraphale spoke with such hopeful reverence, that it made Crowley’s heart ache for him. This was the angel who’d given his sword to the first humans, to fend off the cold and the wild creatures, and thousands of years later, he was still taking care of them. 

_ Just an angel and a demon standing between Heaven and Hell…  _ Aziraphale must be exhausted, Crowley realized suddenly. Not so long ago, he’d eaten up the propaganda the other angels had hand-fed him, but over the past eleven years he’d thrown off the illusions and dived into his new (old?) role as protector. Meanwhile, Crowley had been running in circles on the brink of cashing in his chips and leaving for a new planet, leaving this world to ruin. 

Crowley knelt down to look at a flower with his back to the other two, anything to avoid seeing the hope die in his angel’s face. Somehow, with a surety that he’d never experienced before, he knew Barachiel wouldn’t help. Couldn’t. 

“I can see how much you care about humanity,” Barachiel said. “But one angel can’t stop a holy war. Gabriel’s been set in his ways since before the Fall, and Michael was always hot-blooded. Uriel can be a bit of an enigma, but I think she just wants to do what is right. You won’t convince them.” 

Feathers fluffing in agitation, Aziraphale continued to plead with the Archangel. “But what else can we do? They’re the most powerful angels in Heaven right now, and all three of them want a war. Listen, if you and the other missing Archangels come back, just the once, and talk some sense into them--” 

“Other Archangels? You’re mistaken. I’m the only one left.” 

Crowley looked back at them in shock. Still kneeling in front of the flowers, he spoke up for the first time. “How is that possible? There were seven. Where did they go?” 

“They’re gone,” Barachiel said simply. He met Crowley’s gaze, expression unreadable. 

“Gone? What does that mean? Dead?” 

“In a sense.”

Hands trembling with agitation, Crowley stood up and began to pace. “Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, Barachiel, Raphael, Remiel, and Salaphiel, right?” he muttered, the names coming back to him like the words to an old song. “They can’t be dead, they’re immortal.”

“Maybe immortality isn’t as permanent as it sounds. But you already know that, don’t you?” 

Crowley froze. 

“You came to see me on someone else’s behalf.” 

Encouraged by Aziraphale’s short nod, Crowley explained. “Ligur, Duke of Hell. I attacked him with holy water and stripped his demonic powers. He’s mortal now, and… I have to help him. Restore him. You’re an Archangel; can you put him back to how he was before?” 

“A noble effort, to help one that you’ve hurt. Though, it would have saved you a lot of time if you hadn’t hurt him in the first place.” 

Glowering, Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets. “It’s a yes or no question. Can you make Ligur into a demon again?” 

“No.”

_ Oh, bloody Hell. _ Crowley wanted to smack this infuriating Archangel. “Care to explain?” 

“I’m not a healer. You need the Archangel Raphael for that.”

“Where’re they, then?” 

“Don’t you know?” 

Crowley growled. He felt like Aziraphale looked; frustrated, defeated. If Barachiel was telling the truth, he was the last Archangel, and he couldn’t help them. 

_ We’re on our side… Well it’s a bloody big empty side to be on.  _

“Come on, Angel. If he doesn’t want to help us, we can figure something else out. We always have.” 

Aziraphale hesitated, looking at his hands. “You said the other Archangels are dead, but you think we can still find Raphael?”

“I didn’t say dead; I said gone.”

“Is Raphael gone?”

“Depends on how you look at it.” 

Fed up with the circular conversation, Crowley grabbed Aziraphale by the sleeve and dragged him to his feet. “Time to go, before I do something you’ll regret.” 

“Wait just a moment, dear.” He put his hand over Crowley’s and turned back to Barachiel. “Please, just tell us where we can find Raphael. We can’t do this on our own.” 

Barachiel chuckled. “You’re looking too hard. Just sit back, relax, and let things come to you.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Crowley said, feeling clammy all over. He tugged Aziraphale’s arm, desperate to leave the stifling Conservatory where the scent of flowers was starting to give him a headache. 

“Thanks for coming to visit an old man--”

_ “We’re the same age,” _ Crowley said under his breath. 

“--and listen: you’re good folks. I think everything will work out for you in the end.” 

Finally, Aziraphale gave a little wave and followed Crowley back towards the lobby and fresh air. 

“Wait!” Barachiel called just before they left the atrium. He limped over on his cane. “I want to give you something. Just my way of saying thanks. I don’t see a lot of the old crowd anymore; I think they’ve mostly forgotten me in Heaven. Feel free to stop by and say hello whenever you’re around!” 

He pressed something into Crowley’s hand before saying a final goodbye. Without any further hesitation, Crowley stowed his wings and fled the Bellagio as if a Hellhound was on his heels. Aziraphale kept pace behind him. 

Anxiety lessening with every stride, Crowley didn’t stop walking until he had returned to Paris across the street. Even though the desert afternoon was so hot that thermal energy shimmered in visible waves off the tarmac, it was less suffocating outside than in the Conservatory. Crowley could breathe again without angel dust setting his nerves on end.   
“What did he give you?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley looked at his hand, in which he held a long-stemmed rose. The petals were plush, an orange-red autumn colour that matched the theme of the Conservatory’s display. Blood dripped from Crowley’s palm where he had clutched the thorns too tight. His heart pounded with a feeling he couldn’t name, and the flower fell to the ground through his trembling fingers. 


	11. Chapter 11

Aziraphale was perturbed by the conversation with Barachiel, which hadn’t gone at all the way he’d expected. Barachiel had been… not what he’d pictured in an Archangel, given the interactions he’d had in the past with Gabriel, Michael, and Uriel. They were warriors, bent on carrying out God’s plan, or more likely, as Aziraphale was beginning to understand, determined to accomplish their own ends in God’s name. But Barachiel didn’t seem worried about Heaven’s business, even if it threatened the stability of Earth. 

What now then? Fly back to his bookshop and hope Heaven and Hell lose interest in the Apocalypse? Actually, it was an enticing option. After all, there was no immediate threat brewing. The Antichrist was at rest, enjoying the start of another school year with his new dog and his friends. There hadn’t been any more assassination attempts against Aziraphale or Crowley for over over a month. 

Maybe Aziraphale could just relax and enjoy life for a while. 

But he recalled the anger of the Archangels right after Armageddon had been averted, he remembered seeing the dark shadow of Gabriel watching him in the rain, not so long ago, and he knew that he couldn’t sit on his hands while Heaven and Hell prepared for war, no matter how far off in the future it was. 

How could one angel alone, even with someone as bright and resourceful as Crowley at his side, prevent disaster?

_ “I think everything will work out for you in the end, _ ” Barachiel had said. Did he know something they didn’t? Clearly. 

Frustrated and hopeless, Aziraphale nevertheless tried to put on a brave face for Crowley, who had seemed disturbed by the whole encounter. Barachiel’s rose had sparked something in Crowley’s expression, some dread that Aziraphale didn’t understand. Though Crowley had tossed it aside, Aziraphale had picked it up again when he wasn’t looking and intended to ask him about it later. 

For now, he was determined to cheer Crowley up by enjoying their last day in Vegas. Their flight home left early tomorrow morning, and there was more than they could hope to see in the remainder of the afternoon. Still, Aziraphale thought they could knock a few key items off the tourist to-do list. He bought them monorail tickets and they boarded the train which would take them almost the entire length of the Strip. 

He let Crowley take the window seat and slid in beside him, knees bumping as they got comfortable. Vegas flew by from their vantage point above the ground. They had gotten on at the Bally’s/Paris station and gone south toward the MGM Grand, looking at the backs of the palatial skyscrapers. Then, they got on a northbound train and toured all the way back to the northernmost end of the Strip: the Stratosphere. 

While they were watching life pass by outside the thin window pane, Aziraphale recalled countless times that he and Crowley had met clandestinely on public transportation to discuss the business of the end of the world. Usually, Aziraphale would get on the bus and prop a newspaper in front of his face, and then Crowley would casually sit down behind him, and they would whisper as if talking to themselves. Those days had been difficult. As the Apocalypse neared, it had felt more important than ever to hide his friendship with Crowley, in case Heaven or Hell was watching them. They had made do with stolen time and secret meetings. Aziraphale’s heart had soared whenever he got to see Crowley and shattered every time he left. 

But now they were past all that, past the hiding and the fear, and Aziraphale felt ready to burst with all the love he had for his demon, all the love he’d kept locked away inside himself when it was too dangerous to admit out loud. 

He slipped his hand into Crowley’s. “I love you more than you could ever know, dear boy.” 

“Uh-huh, sounds good. Whatever you want, Angel.” 

Aziraphale frowned. Not quite the answer he’d hoped for. But Crowley was staring out the window, seemingly at nothing, lost in thought. “Crowley, did you hear what I said?” 

“Er, what? Sorry. Got distracted.” He turned to Aziraphale and leaned their shoulders together.

“I said I love you.” 

Breaking into a smile, Crowley nuzzled Aziraphale’s neck. “‘Course you do. I’m irresistible.” 

Content as he was with the heat of Crowley’s body pressed up against him, it didn’t occur to Aziraphale that Crowley might be cuddling as a way to hide his face. It felt so good to have him in his arms after so long, he didn’t want to believe that anything could be wrong. With the feel of Crowley’s hair under his cheek and Crowley’s scent enveloping him, thoughts of Barachiel’s cryptic statements were as far from his mind as London was from Vegas. He sighed, and focused on the moment. Right now, in Sin City with Crowley, everything was okay. 

No, he certainly wasn’t thinking about missing Archangels, or the possibility that one might be closer than he’d ever hoped… 

Once again, they switched trains and got off at a station closer to the Encore and made their way back to their hotel room before deciding what to do next. It was the hottest part of the day, and the air conditioned suite felt like Heaven to Aziraphale. He sat at the desk and fanned himself with one of his papers while Crowley curled up on the bed facing the wall. The set of his shoulders was tense. 

“Crowley? Is everything okay?” 

“S’fine. Just can’t stop thinking about that useless Archangel. Who does he think he is, anyway? We asked him for help, and he didn’t even give it a proper thought before blowing us off.” 

“I was under the impression you were glad to get out of there.” 

“Well, yeah I suppose. He was a bit creepy. Seemed to me like he was just toying with us.” 

Aziraphale thought for a moment, chin propped in his hand as he gazed at Crowley’s back. “I don’t think so. He was kind enough, if a little preoccupied with his plants. But he was encouraging, wasn’t he? Maybe he has faith that you and I can figure it out.” Aziraphale wanted to believe it. Wanted to have hope that everything would work out. 

“Ehhh. I thought he was sending some mixed messages, to be honest.” 

“Speaking of messages, you didn’t explain what this one meant.” Aziraphale pulled the rose out of his pocket, miraculously undamaged. The petals were orange, blushing red at the tips, and it smelled so sweet and pure it made Aziraphale want to go out and bless the Earth. 

Crowley flipped over to look, and ground his teeth audibly before turning back towards the wall. “Didn’t know you kept that.” 

“Is it significant?” 

“How should I know? Weird old angel probably hands out flowers to everyone who passes through.”

“Somehow, I doubt it. Maybe I should be jealous.” He’d been kidding but… roses were supposed to be symbols of love, after all. Though, Aziraphale had no idea what orange might signify. A hollow opened up in his gut as he thought about it, the idea that Crowley once might have loved a different angel, a more powerful angel than Aziraphale, one who made gifts of beautiful roses. Surely Crowley would have mentioned it? 

_ Concentrate, Aziraphale. _ “How much do you remember from before the Fall?” he asked. 

For a long moment, Crowley didn’t answer. Then, “Why?” 

“Maybe you knew Barachiel from before.” 

A deep sigh. “I don’t really have any clear memories of Heaven. Just vague pictures. Like a dream. But I think it’s a safe bet to say I didn’t hang out with a lot of Archangels.” 

“How would you know, though? If you don’t remember?” 

“I don’t know, Aziraphale. Did you get invited to play reindeer games with Gabriel and the others every weekend? No offense, but you’re a bit lower on the ladder than them.” 

Aziraphale wasn’t offended. He was perfectly happy to be a Principality; it meant his responsibilities to Heaven were somewhat limited and he had more free time to do whatever he wanted. 

He looked at the rose. The colour reminded him of Crowley’s hair. 

Was he really jealous of an imagined relationship between Crowley and Barachiel six thousand years ago? If he was being honest… yeah, a bit. He couldn’t help it, he wanted Crowley all to himself. Covetousness might be a sin, but then again, Aziraphale had never been a very good angel. 

He wondered if he and Crowley had ever met before the Fall. Had they been friends? Would they have been able to recognize each other, after? It was so long ago, even Aziraphale’s memories of Paradise were hazy. 

“You knew their names,” Aziraphale said suddenly. The thought had hit him like a lorry, a sneaking suspicion suddenly revved up into high gear. 

“What?” Again, Crowley turned over to look at Aziraphale. 

“The names of the Archangels. You said them to Barachiel. It was Raphael, Remiel, and… see, I already forgot the last one.”

“Salaphiel. What about it?”

“Even I didn’t know them. I assumed I had forgotten the last two, but now I think I just never knew. I’m pretty sure Michael was the only Archangel I ever met before the Revolution, and that’s because she assigned the guards to Eden.” Aziraphale wrung his hands, pulse quickening. 

Crowley sat cross legged in bed, expression guarded. “Get to the point.” 

“You don’t remember anything, but you knew their names. So you must have been close enough to them that their names were familiar. You know, like muscle memory. Or a favourite poem.” 

“Great. So I was mates with a group of war-mongering Archangels. Fat lot of good it’s done me.” 

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“What are you saying, then?” Crowley leapt out of bed and paced the living room in front of the window, hands jammed into his pockets. He wouldn’t look at Aziraphale. 

“Maybe you knew them because you were one of them.” 

Aziraphale held his breath, and Crowley stilled. Silence stretched between them like a chasm. 

“That’s ridiculous,” Crowley said, flat and cold as a biting wind. 

“Do you remember who you were in Heaven? What was your name before you were Crowley?”

“I was called Crawly. You remember.”

“Before that.” 

“Why does it matter?” He whipped around, teeth bared, and Aziraphale thought he saw a flash of fang. “Nothing that Barachiel said is any use; he’s just an old, lonely angel who thinks it’s funny to mess with us. Don’t listen to him. We don’t need the Archangels, they only like to stir up shite and watch the rest of us drown in it.” 

“But Barachiel said Raphael wasn’t dead, he’s gone, and we’re looking too hard. Don’t you think he meant--”

“No, I don’t think he meant anything, actually.” Crowley continued pacing. “He’s just trying to fuck with our heads, cause that’s what they do. Maybe he’s working with Gabriel, trying to rile us up, start the war just like you’re afraid of. We can’t trust anything he said.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t see Crowley’s eyes, but he sounded desperate, close to panic. 

“Can you at least acknowledge the possibility that--”

“Not a chance.” 

“Let’s talk about this like--”

“I don’t want to talk about this at all!” Crowley was edging toward the door, tapping his fingers on his legs. 

“Stop interrupting me!” Aziraphale stood up from his chair and took a step closer to Crowley, feeling like he was trying to corner an injured fox. If he went too fast, he might get bit. “Crowley, is it possible that you were the Archangel Raphael? This could be the answer we’ve been looking for! If you are Raphael, you could heal your friend, you could confront Michael and the other angels who want a war. You’re right, we can forget about Barachiel as long as we have Raphael.” 

The stillness was unbearable. Aziraphale couldn’t read Crowley’s expression; his sunglasses were dark as obsidian. 

“Aren’t I good enough for you?” Crowley said in a low growl. 

“What?” 

“Did you forget I was the one who helped you save the world? Not Barachiel. Not Raphael. That was me. Us. And Anathema and Newt and Adam and--”

“What are you talking about? Of course I didn’t forget.” Aziraphale’s heart pounded. He and Crowley had argued before, but this quiet fury was new. For the first time, he could see the serpent in Crowley, coiled to strike, and its fangs were aimed at him. 

“I can’t live with my head in the past, Aziraphale. I’m done with Heaven. I’m done with Hell, too, for that matter. How long are you going to keep crawling back to them, kissing their boots, hoping one of them will take you back? I’m sick of waiting around for you to catch up.” 

Aziraphale recoiled as if Crowley had taken a swing at him. He was purposefully misunderstanding, purposefully being cruel. “We’ve already had this fight, and you know that’s not what I want. I have always been with you, Crowley. We don’t have to figure this out right now--”

“No, because you already have it all solved, don’t you? Send in the bloody Archangels to save the day, let Raphael heal the whole world, because Crowley certainly can’t hack it! Angel…” Crowley paused, gesturing to himself. “This is all I am. This is all I can give you. If you’re expecting more, then, well. At least I’m used to being a disappointment.” 

“Crowley, no.” Aziraphale’s eyes burned with tears. “I could never be disappointed in you.” He reached out, but Crowley took another step back. “I love you.” 

“Do you? Or do you love the angel I might have been?” 

Shaking his head, Aziraphale couldn’t even bring himself to answer. How could Crowley ask such a question? After everything, after so many thousands of years of sharing himself with Crowley, of showing his love in every way short of speaking the words aloud, and yet still Crowley doubted. How many more ways could he say it? He felt choked up. His traitorous corporeal teeth refused to unbar his tongue. 

“Aziraphale, I’m going for a walk. I need to be alone for a while. To think about this.” 

“Listen to me.” Crowley froze in the doorway, and Aziraphale took his hand. “Don’t run away. Take your walk. Take whatever time you need. But come back to me, okay? Because I love you so much, Crowley, and I will spend the rest of eternity to convince you if I have to.” 

Crowley nodded, and gripped Aziraphale’s hand so hard it hurt. Then he left, and Aziraphale’s last glimpse was of Crowley stalking down the hallway as the door swung shut between them. 

The sun went down. The night dragged on. Aziraphale packed his bag and spent many sleepless hours gazing out the window down to the Strip, thinking about Archangels and Armageddon and demons who refused to let themselves be loved. Eventually, dawn lightened the sky, and still Crowley hadn’t returned. 

It was early morning, and Aziraphale had already checked out of the hotel and passed through the security check at McCarran International Airport. He didn’t know what to do. Earlier, he had tried to call Crowley’s mobile from a payphone, several times, but he hadn’t picked up. Their flight was going to leave in two hours, and Aziraphale had no idea if he should go or wait in Vegas for Crowley.

He wasn’t worried that Crowley was lost, at least, not in the geographic sense. He was a grown demon, and he could find his own way back to London easily, but maybe he was waiting for Aziraphale to come find him. Maybe he needed help. Maybe he’d been kidnapped by Hell and he was about to be executed and Aziraphale was just sitting on his arse at the airport. 

Probably not. 

But maybe. 

Aziraphale tried to call Crowley again, and left another voicemail. He might have just lost track of time and was playing cards at some off-Strip casino, and when he realized the time he would rush to the airport, but of course it would be too late, and he’d watch helplessly as the plane carrying Aziraphale took off across the sea, and he would sink into a chair and weep, but then Aziraphale would step out from the bridge and embrace him because of course he wouldn’t leave without Crowley, and they would kiss and everything would be okay again.

Aziraphale heaved a frustrated sigh. He read far too many novels. 

He didn’t care if Crowley was Raphael. The more he thought about it, the more he realized Barachiel was right. One angel, even an Archangel, wasn’t going to convince Michael to put down her sword, or Gabriel to let go of his grudge against Hell, or Uriel to change her mind from what she believed to be God’s will. Honestly, maybe they were right and it was only Aziraphale who was wrong. 

Running his hands through his hair, Aziraphale thought that if it really came down to it, he might just ask Adam in a couple years to vanish the Archangels to another plane of existence. Then the world could live in peace, and the Archangels could live in peace, only far away from everyone else. 

However, Raphael might be able to heal Crowley’s friend Ligur. And didn’t it make sense, in a twisted, ironic sort of way? The only person who could restore Ligur’s demonic powers might be the same person who’d originally stripped them away. 

Perhaps Aziraphale had gotten so caught up in the potential of Raphael, that he hadn’t stopped to consider what it might mean for Crowley. 

In the wide hallway just outside the terminal, a phone rang. The same payphone Aziraphale had used to call Crowley the last few times. He looked around, but there was no one else standing near. Jumping up from his seat, he hurried to pick it up, hoping against hope to hear Crowley’s voice on the other end.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Aziraphale? It’s Amy.” 

A pang of disappointment, but Aziraphale shook it off. “How did you know where I am?”

“I didn’t. I don’t. That is, I just guessed the number and used a little miracle to make sure it got through. Where are you?”

“Airport. My flight back to London is leaving soon. Amy, have you heard from Crowley? He left yesterday and hasn’t come back yet. I can’t leave him behind.” 

“Yeah, he’s here.”

“What? Where?” 

“My apartment. He called me last night and me and Sahra went to pick him up and he stayed over.” 

“Oh, good. Is he okay? We argued before he left.” 

Amy made a derisive sound. “Yeah, he told me all about that. Seems to think you’re more interested in him as a maybe-Archangel than him as a demon.” 

“That is not true at all! I didn’t know until yesterday, and--you know, we don’t really know anything yet, it’s just that Barachiel implied that he might be Raphael, and--”

“Christ, Aziraphale, I’ve already heard this. At length. All night long. He wouldn’t shut up about it. And I already told him he’s being ridiculous.” 

In the background, Aziraphale heard a disgruntled exclamation. “Is he there now? Can I talk to him?” 

There was a shuffling noise, and voices, and then what sounded like the phone being dropped, and then Amy was back. “He won’t take the phone.” 

“Put me on speaker, then.” 

“Okay, you’re on.”

“Crowley, darling, come home with me. You can make it to the airport if you leave now. I don’t care about Raphael, if that’s what you’re worried about. I haven’t given him a thought my entire life until yesterday, and I promise I love you more than I could ever love any of the arrogant, self-centered brutes who call themselves Archangels. You’re my north star, Crowley; I’m hopelessly lost without you.” 

“Say more,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale nearly collapsed with relief. 

“What?” 

“Say more about how much you love me.”

Grinning, Aziraphale obliged. “You’re the light of my life. The centuries would have been tedious and unbearable without your company, but when I’m with you, time trips by and the road doesn’t seem so long.” He scanned his memory for a literary allusion; the great poets of the past had already written about love more succinctly and passionately than Aziraphale could come up with on the fly. “My darling Crowley. Doubt thou that the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move, Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love.” 

There was quiet on the other end.

“Crowley?” 

“Amy’s crying,” Crowley said, though his usual snark was conspicuously watery. 

“Shut up. I am not,” Amy hissed. 

They were okay. Aziraphale hadn’t pushed Crowley too hard with his suspicions about Raphael. If it was true, the impact could be monumentous, but Aziraphale realized he couldn’t force Crowley to reconcile with his past. 

“Whatever happens, I love you for you.” 

“Angel, I… I have to think about this. About who I am. The memories are there, I can feel them, but trying to reach them is like walking through spiderwebs. Maybe I was Raphael, but maybe I was nobody. I don’t want it to change how you think of me.”

“It won’t.” 

“I’m going to stay with Amy and Sahra today, and then I’ll meet you in London tomorrow. Okay? I love you, Aziraphale.” 

However good it felt to say it, it felt even better to hear it back. Aziraphale’s insides were warm and cottony. “Love you too, my dear. See you soon.” 


	12. Chapter 12

Rather than set out for London immediately after leaving Amy and Sahra’s flat, Crowley flew over the desert in the growing twilight. From far above, he watched the sunset paint the slopes of the eastern mountains red. Away from the city the empty desert was beautiful and unearthly, flat except where the land was furrowed with arroyos or jagged with rocky cliffs. It was wild, and untamed, and inhospitable, but far from barren. 

He left the city behind and flew west toward the Spring Mountains, toward the sun, a blazing orb half-hidden beneath the horizon. The rugged mountains displayed broad bands of red and tan sandstone, rising above the scrubby desert floor like the back of a sleeping serpent. Gazing at the mountains from the Strip, they had looked gentle, almost mild enough to walk right up the side, but as he approached he appreciated the sheer peaks and dangerous drops. Any creature would have to be tenacious to make its home upon the Earth’s treacherous backbone. 

Alighting on a bumpy plateau, Crowley was surprised by the amount and variety of vegetation he could see at such a high elevation. Peering over the edge, he saw the lower slopes were blanketed with dark green pines and twisted junipers. Near where he landed was an evergreen bush almost as tall as him, its branches speckled with pale yellow flowers that reminded him of stars. He sat down under it and inhaled the light aroma, sweet and piney, making him ache for days long-passed and only half-remembered. 

Aziraphale had probably landed at Heathrow by now, and Crowley felt a twinge of guilt for ditching him. Crowley still had the keys to the Bentley in his pocket; not that he would allow Aziraphale to drive his baby, but now he’d be forced to call a cab. He twirled the keys through his fingers and had to physically resist the urge to chuck them over the edge. Why? The Bentley had done nothing wrong.

It was Barachiel he was angry at. 

Things had been going swimmingly with Aziraphale. They’d had a perfect day and Crowley had started to think that maybe things could be this good, could be this easy, forever. Or maybe it had just been the alcohol making him dream a fool’s dream. 

Then the stupid Archangel and his stupid vague implications, which of course Aziraphale had taken to heart instantly, shattering the peace Crowley had been allowed to savour oh-so-briefly. 

Crowley didn’t remember Heaven. He didn’t want to remember. 

And yet he could feel in the back of his mind all those swirling impressions and nebulous whispers, nothing concrete enough to be called a memory, which belonged to another life. Another person. Not Crowley. 

Before the stars, when the universe was young, there had been only the vast emptiness of space. The night sky was dark, and the moon waxed and waned in isolation, forever yearning for her lover, the sun. Then, God had instructed the angels to make more light and so they did, and through the haze of millennia Crowley recalled the heat of a newborn star as he formed it in his palm and the thrill of tossing it into the void where it would take its place in reality alongside the Creator’s handiwork. The stars would outlive him, he was sure. They must look down upon the petty conflicts of Heaven and Hell and think them juvenile and ignorant, to waste precious centuries clinging to an old grudge. 

He wondered if his stars remembered him. 

Lying on his back upon the rocks, Crowley looked up as the first twinkling pinpricks of light appeared in the night sky, so impossibly far away. There was something he had always wondered, one of the questions he was never supposed to ask, one that plagued his thoughts and drove him to explore the mysteries and challenge the pre-established proverbs of creation. The angels had made the stars--some of them. But there were heavenly bodies more ancient than the angels. Stars had already been born and burned out by the time Crowley had forged his first one. 

Something about the stars tugged at his heartstrings, and for the first time Crowley wished he could remember his past life. Who was the stranger locked inside his head? What had he dreamed, back when he’d laid upon the clouds in Heaven? Would he be happy with the choices Crowley had made, the person he’d become? 

“Raphael?” Crowley asked the empty air, testing out the name. “Are you there? I really need your help. See, there’s this angel; Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, maybe you knew him. I went and fell in love with him against all reason. Angels aren’t supposed to love demons, you know. We’re enemies... or so I’m told. I couldn’t tell you why. Our sides--bloody rat bastards--have watched us for thousands of years, ever since the beginning, so it was always too dangerous to be together openly. Then the Apocalypse didn’t happen and everything changed. Well, it did for me, at least. Really, what did I expect? It’s all too complicated, the logistics of it, I mean. A demon who fell in love with an angel: there’s a Shakespearean tragedy if I ever heard one. I couldn’t live if he got hurt because of me. But if you were here… Maybe you could keep him safe.” 

There was no answer--not that he expected an answer from a cipher--and the last of the day’s warmth left the quickly-cooling rocks. 

It was quiet on that desert mountain peak. 

Crowley felt an itch in his feathers where his wings were splayed out against the ground. There was a snake slithering over the tips of his primaries, flicking out its tongue as if uncertain about him. But his body was warm and the sandstone was getting cold, and the snake buried itself against his side. Crowley looked at it in wonder. Beige with darker brown blotches, it was small and beautiful and deathly-venomous.

At first light, Crowley would fly to London and find Aziraphale. In the meantime, he fell asleep under the cold light of unfamiliar stars, with the comforting weight of the serpent coiled in the crook of his wing. 

\---

Around the same time Crowley was soaring over Las Vegas towards the mountains, Amy was sitting on her porch drinking a beer. Sahra was taking a bubble bath, and Amy could hear her singing from the open bathroom window. She had a beautiful voice. Angelic. Sometimes Amy couldn’t believe her luck, couldn’t believe such an amazing person had fallen in love with her. But then Sahra would smile at her, or touch the small of her back as she passed behind, and Amy knew all was as it was meant to be. 

For a moment, she closed her eyes and listened to her wife sing. Crickets added their harmonies from the landscaping below, and her thoughts wandered to their new friends, Crowley and Aziraphale. The poor conflicted creatures. Any idiot could see they were in love, and life, even an immortal one, was too short to spend brooding over potentialities. If only there was a guidebook for angel-demon romances, it would save everyone so much time. 

In her opinion, Aziraphale was a gratuitous worrywart while Crowley was a catastrophizer, an explosive match if there ever was one. But Amy had to admit she was glad someone was contingency planning for the end of the world, even if she had her doubts as to the likelihood of said business. Most of the angels and demons she knew would rather spend a day counting grains of sand on the beach instead of fighting another war. What would they fight about, anyway? 

Well, the Londoners had already prevented Doomsday once, and Amy was content to let them handle the next one if and when it came. 

She opened her eyes, intending to go in and grab another beer from the fridge, and nearly toppled over sideways. There was a person standing in front of her. A person whose brown eyes gleamed faintly red in the reflected living room light, and whose fuck-off massive bat was glaring at Amy from its perch on the other’s shoulder. 

“Who are you?” Amy said, switching to an over-handed grip on her bottle. Always better to be wary and wrong, she always said.

“Name’s Lila, Duchess of Hell. Put that bottle down before you embarrass yourself.” She sounded like someone who was used to her orders being obeyed. She also sounded like she was from London. Two guesses why she was here. 

Disgruntled, Amy stowed her empty in the cupholder of her chair, and crossed her ankle over her knee. She listened for Sahra’s soothing voice, checking to see if she was still okay. Amy was willing to consider being cooperative, as long as no one messed with her wife.

“Why are you here?” 

Lila leaned back against the railing and pulled a scroll from her inner coat pocket. With a flick of her wrist, she unrolled it, and the yellowing paper trailed on the ground. “You’re overdue for your quarterly review, but the buck kept getting passed until finally the job landed on my desk. Nobody else was willing to do it; apparently you have a reputation for churlishness.” 

Amy cackled. “I call out stupidity when I see it.”

The ghost of a smile graced the Duchess’s lip, and Amy felt she was in the presence of a kindred spirit. 

“So, what’s this review, then, other than a massive waste of our time? I haven’t had one yet this year.”

“Well, it is quarterly, after all. Every twenty-five years,” she clarified in response to Amy’s raised eyebrow. “Are you going to offer me a drink, or do I have to read all this with a dry mouth?” 

Snapping her fingers, Amy summoned a pair of beers, frosty with condensation, and passed one to Lila. 

“So, starting at the top… Looks like you’ve collected a long list of reprimands for tardiness, failure to report, unsatisfactory job performance on several projects, excessive use of personal miracles, and as of yesterday, consorting with a known traitor to Hell. Oh, and--your direct supervisors were flabbergasted by your decision to marry an angel. They’d like to know why.” 

“It was the obvious course of action, really. I mean, look at us, same gender, different religions, opposing sides; we’re just racking up the sins. I’m surprised I’m not a legend yet. In fact, I think I deserve a commendation. I must be the only demon to have achieved a continuous temptation--you know, ’til death do us part.” 

Lila chuckled. “You’re far from the only one, believe me. But for some reason I never get invited to the weddings.” She tossed the scroll onto the floor. “To be frank, I don’t care about your review. Crowley’s not answering his mobile and I’m trying to check in on him. He’s been here, right?”

“Why do you want to know?” 

“He dumped a bucket of holy water on my brother, and now he’s trying to heal him. Last I heard, he was tracking an Archangel in this area.” 

Amy paused, absorbing the information. It seemed to match what Crowley had told her and Sahra over the last day and a half. He had laid on their couch for hours, moping and eating all their ice cream as he complained about his relationship. Amy had tuned him out after the first few minutes, though his mellow voice and smooth accent had provided a nice backdrop for her catnap. Bits and pieces of his monologue came back to her, mostly about how he was dreadfully misunderstood and his angel must be ashamed of him and he didn’t mean to Fall, really. As if any demon had. 

Aziraphale certainly hadn’t looked ashamed when he was fondling Crowley in the casino last night. What a disaster duo. Amy was fond of them already. 

“Might have seen him.” 

“I just want to know if he’s made any progress. Did he say if he found his Archangel?” 

Reviewing Crowley’s long-winded ramble in her mind, Amy said slowly, “You know, I kind of think he did.” 


	13. Chapter 13

Though he'd only been gone for four days, it felt like an age had passed by the time Crowley returned to London. From Vegas, he'd taken a shortcut through Hell, stepping through a door marked 'danger: high voltage' and entering the same dingy Class C underground office building where Crowley used to have his desk. Technically, it was still there, but the fear of assassination made Crowley less than enthused to go downstairs and visit with his old desk mate. He wondered how old Morazolyl was doing. 

There were two things that made this building--decrepit and drafty as it was, standing at the edge of the desolate fields of Asphodel overlooking ghostly figures flitting through the shadows of the grass--preferable over Hell's main campus. Firstly, there were no angels in the attic. One could almost relax, knowing one didn't have to uphold a constant facade of infernal misconduct to impress the opposition, should they happen to come down. The second reason was that most of Hell's higher-ups resided in the main building and rarely visited Pandemonium anymore. Thus, by keeping to his desk in the secondary office complex, Crowley had often managed to avoid Beelzebub, Dagon, and the others, except when called in for a meeting or presentation. He'd take his wobbly shared desk and the company of his morose desk mate over a decent office near the bosses any day. 

He thought about going down to check in with Lila, and felt only the slightest twinge of guilt about dodging her texts. He didn't even have anything concrete to tell her anyway. 

Lingering in the lobby only long enough for reality to reorient itself outside the doors, Crowley exited as swiftly as he'd come and emerged in a darkened alley in Soho behind a bar that had just locked up after last orders. He leaned against the wall, drained by the effort of miracle travel. 

For a moment, he was disoriented, but he walked around the block until he'd gotten his bearings, and he headed for Aziraphale's bookshop. His breath frosted in the chilly night air, a welcome, if somewhat jarring, change from the relentless desert heat. 

_ Raphael _ . Voices seemed to whisper in his mind, calling to him through the millennia, though he couldn't tell if the memories were real or only imagined. Did it matter who he'd been? Would it change who he was now? Crowley felt as if he was standing at a crossroads; he could run from his past, or unlock it, and both options filled him with dread. 

Aziraphale wanted him to save the world, though, former Archangel or not, Crowley didn't think he had it in him. They'd pulled their last victory out of a hat, and certainly wouldn’t have managed without help--though they both knew the peace wouldn't last long. Management was spoiling for a fight. Maybe they could be satisfied shooting paintballs at each other at Sister Mary's convention centre. Crowley added that one to his growing list of last-ditch options. 

But Aziraphale was so earnest, so naive in his dedication to peace, that Crowley couldn't bear to let him down. What wouldn’t he do for his angel? 

As he neared the bookshop, Crowley saw a light on in the window of the upstairs flat, and he was hit with a memory so visceral he nearly tripped over the pavement. The first time he had ever seen Aziraphale wasn’t the time they’d met in the Garden, it had been before that, before the Fall. Crowley had been flying over the Earth one night, skimming the clouds with the backs of his wings, and he’d looked down and saw a light on the Garden wall. There was an angel guarding the Gate, sword blazing with righteous flames, protecting God’s fragile new creations against the ruthless outside world. 

He remembered how sweet the air smelled before humans industrialized the planet, and how clear the stars looked at night before cities polluted the sky with light. 

He hadn’t given the angel much thought the first time he’d seen him; but there were many nights afterward when Crowley would circle lazily above the Garden, or sit on a cliffside overlooking the river valley, content to simply observe the guardian and his sword. He had often wondered, without any real hope, if the strange angel might share some of Crowley’s misgivings about the divine plan. Many idle nights Crowley spent trying to imagine what he would think of the Garden over which he kept watch. Of the Tree and the ever-present temptation of forbidden knowledge. Of the nature of angels and humans. Of life and love. 

Crowley looked up at the illuminated window of his angel’s bookshop, eyes swimming with a history he could only remember traces of. He had never met Aziraphale before the Fall, but he had seen his light all the same. It guided him then, as it did now.

At his approach, the bookshop door swung open with a creak that sounded like a welcome. The ground floor was dark with all the curtains drawn, but Crowley went straight through to the back without really needing to see, anyway. Going up the narrow staircase, he realized this was the first time he’d been in Aziraphale’s flat. Before, they’d always spent their time together in the back room of the bookshop.

It was exactly what Crowley had expected. A cozy, plush sofa in the sitting room with a quilted blanket draped over the back. In the middle of the old, rustic wood floor was a rug that Crowley longed to sink his feet into. The walls were hung with a variety of original paintings, some of which he had helped Aziraphale find. And of course there were books, stacked on the coffee table, lining the bookshelves, nearly blocking the TV in a towering pile. Crowley didn’t know Aziraphale had a TV, though this boxy set had already been outdated by the 1970s. 

With a fond smile, Crowley started looking for the angel himself. “Aziraphale?” No answer. Perhaps he was asleep. 

Crowley knocked on a door which he presumed led to the bedroom, and when he heard no answering call, he went in. Nothing, except the lamp he’d seen from the street. Aziraphale’s bed set was a patchwork quilt of chocolate brown and tan and cream in a--Crowley shuddered--tartan pattern. The pillows matched. 

No Aziraphale. Though, there was a book on the nightstand, and a mug of tea that was half-empty. Crowley picked it up. Cold. 

Sitting down on the bed, Crowley wondered where Aziraphale could possibly be at such a late hour. Admittedly, he was a little hurt that he wasn’t waiting for him, but he shoved those feelings aside. There were any number of places the angel might be, plenty of people to visit, late-night cafes to sit in and listen to locals play guitar on the open mic. Crowley had never in his life cared to go to an open mic, but the thought that Aziraphale might go without him made him yearn like an undergrad at a liberal arts university. 

But thinking about it and doing nothing was fruitless. Crowley picked up his mobile and called Aziraphale.

Downstairs, the shop's phone rang.

Crowley hit end call and pinched the bridge of his nose.  _ This whole love business is making me daft. _

Where else might he be? Crowley rang several other numbers, most of which went straight to answerphone. Though, he did manage to piss off Anathema, who promised to curse his bubble bath to smell like garlic if he ever woke her up after midnight again. Shadwell, on the other hand, was more than pleased to hear his voice, and he badgered Crowley for a job until, with a vague promise of something spooky in the works, Crowley hung up on him. 

Maybe it was irrational, but he was starting to get worried. Crowley had told him he was coming back today.

Why wouldn’t Aziraphale leave a note? 

Why would he leave his tea half-drunk? 

Trying to quell the twisting in his insides, Crowley curled up under Aziraphale’s blankets. It smelled like Aziraphale, and Crowley closed his eyes and imagined that he was there with him. There was a little white feather poking out of the quilt, a covert, and he ran his fingers over the smooth barbs. One time, in Greece, Aziraphale had let Crowley groom his wings, and he remembered the feeling as if it were yesterday. Luxurious feathers covered flight muscles that were taut like oak under the thin flesh of his wing. Crowley had dragged his fingers through Aziraphale’s shoulder feathers, and Aziraphale had leaned back into him with a deep, contented sigh. 

He couldn’t wait to get his hands in Aziraphale’s wings again. 

But first, he had to find him. 

Crowley went back downstairs and looked around the bookshop. Maybe Aziraphale had left a note that he’d missed when he first walked in. 

No such luck. Crowley drummed his fingers on the counter, trying to ignore the feeling that he was being watched in the darkness. There was no one else around, occult or otherwise. It was probably just memories coming back to haunt him, or the lingering fear of retribution from Hell. Though, hadn’t he nearly lost Aziraphale in this very bookshop not too long ago? 

He could be hurt. Discorporated. Captured and dragged back to Heaven. 

_ Executed. _

No, there would be signs of an ambush, wouldn’t there? Papers scattered on the floor, shelves knocked down, a flurry of feathers, something. Crowley opened up his infernal senses but detected no trace of residual magic. But, Aziraphale could have been taken outside the shop, or tricked into going peacefully. 

Crowley’s heart fluttered.  _ He’s probably fine.  _

But the Archangels, Gabriel in particular, had had it out for Aziraphale ever since they’d saved the world. He remembered Gabriel’s harsh words as he’d tried to burn Crowley, disguised as Aziraphale, in hellfire.  _ Shut your stupid mouth and die already _ . If Hell had been watching Crowley, maybe Heaven was keeping tabs on their rogue angel as well. They weren’t safe yet, this was why Aziraphale wanted to find the missing Archangels, why he wanted Raphael on their side. 

At that moment, Crowley didn’t care if he was Raphael or not, he’d take up the Archangel’s mantle anyway and kick Gabriel’s arse if he’d laid a finger on Aziraphale. Heart burning with a righteous fury, Crowley knew what he needed to do. 

Several blocks down from the bookshop, there was a corner with an old phone booth, which Crowley ducked inside. He made sure to slam the door shut behind him, before opening it and stepping into the lobby of the main building of Heaven and Hell. This was the nice building, recently built for the dubious convenience of housing two competing organizations in the same physical space. 

It always set his teeth on edge. 

The escalators were across from the front entrance, and Crowley went on the one going up with a mounting sense of trepidation. He hadn’t been upstairs since before the Fall, not counting the time over a month ago that he’d worn Aziraphale’s face, saving him from death by hellfire. 

_ Shut your stupid mouth and die already. _

Oh, he could happily strangle Gabriel. 

Reaching Heaven’s foyer, Crowley stepped up to the front desk where a bored-looking angel sat reading a newspaper. 

“Name and rank?” The angel asked without taking their attention from the paper, which, Crowley noticed, was from 1983. Always lagging behind the times, Heaven was. 

“Crowley. Knight.” He hung his sunglasses on the front of his shirt, waiting for the inevitable reaction.

“I don’t think we have--hey, what? You’re a demon!” 

“You really catch on quick, don’t you,” Crowley said sourly. “Now, will you let me through? I have business with your superiors.” 

The secretary angel frowned, uncertain. “What business could you possibly have with Heaven?” 

“I’m sure they’ll tell you if they want you to know.”

A pause. “You’re the one who stopped Armageddon.” 

Crowley heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Yeah, you got me there. Always happy to meet a fan. But I can’t go around handing out autographs, or else everyone will want one.” 

Blinking as if they’d never heard sarcasm before, the angel said, “Er, anyway, are they expecting you upstairs, Mr. Crowley?” 

“Yes, and I’m sure Gabriel will want to know why I’m late.”

“Oh!” The angel smoothed the front of their coat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. You can go in right away.” They pressed a button on the desk and the far door buzzed open, leading to a short hallway with a row of elevators. Crowley tipped an imaginary hat and walked through, but was stopped short by the angel’s quiet voice.

“Thanks, by the way.”

He leaned on the doorframe and pretended to check a watch that he wasn’t wearing. If anyone was spying, they wouldn’t be able to tell there was a private conversation taking place. Secrecy. Crowley had become adept over his many years associating with Aziraphale.

“For what?” he asked the floor.

“For saving the world.”

The door shut behind him, sealing Crowley in Heaven, where he was beginning to think he might find more allies than he’d ever expected. 

He stepped into the nearest lift and pressed the button for the top floor. That was where he’d almost been executed, and he supposed it was the most likely place to start looking for Aziraphale. If he was here at all, assuming he hadn’t just nipped out for kebabs. 

Crowley felt there was something he needed to find here, either way. 

After seemingly ages, the lift doors swooshed open, revealing a hallway which led into a big, open office. One wall was made up entirely of windows, overlooking an expanse of white clouds. White was the obvious theme here; Crowley thought the interior decorator rather lacked imagination. The floor was shiny white, the walls were white, the light from the fluorescent ceiling panels was white, and there was very little in the way of furniture. It smelled sterile, like a hospital. 

Also, the place was deserted. 

There was a globe hovering in approximately the middle of the floor, at least six feet in diameter, and Crowley approached curiously. It was a perfect replica of Earth in real-time, down to the storm system closing in on England’s east coast. He walked halfway around and tried to pinpoint Vegas, but realized he didn’t know where Nevada was. Or any of the states, for that matter. Wondering what would happen if he touched it, he reached out a finger to poke the Gulf of Mexico, but it was like pressing into a rubber sheet. He could only get so close to the surface before some invisible barrier stopped his hand. 

What was the point of it, then? Maybe there were instructions written on the bottom. He ducked down to look at Antarctica, but there was nothing other than snow and ice. 

Making a mental note to ask Aziraphale about it when he found him, Crowley forced himself to get back on task. There was no sign of anyone, not one of the Archangels, not even an angel intern running a tray of coffees to the bosses. Crowley wandered down the length of the wide window, looking out at nothing. Hadn’t there been buildings visible when he’d been here last? He wasn’t sure, but then again, he’d been a bit preoccupied with his attempted execution, and all. 

Crowley walked from one end of the room to the other, and he was glad his mobile was in his pocket because he was certainly getting his steps in for the day. Why did Heaven keep such an enormous floor so empty? Though on second thought, that was rather typical of them. All show and no substance. 

Stymied, he left the way he came, back to the short hallway with the lifts. The hall led down along the longer wall of the big room, and there were several doors to private offices marked with the names of angels Crowley didn’t recognize. At the far end was a closet labeled ‘maintenance only’ and Crowley was tempted to look inside. Angels could work miracles; surely they didn’t need mops. Maybe the sign on the door was a lie, and there was something interesting hidden within. 

He couldn’t help it: he opened it. 

Brooms. Mops. A bucket. Other sundry cleaning supplies.

He didn’t really know what he expected. 

With a twinge of disappointment, Crowley turned away from the closet and looked at the final door at the end of the hall on the very top floor of the building shared by Heaven and Hell. Stairs to the roof level. Well, he couldn’t leave any place unchecked if he really wanted to be thorough, even though he doubted Aziraphale and Gabriel would be hanging out together on the roof. 

He slogged up several flights of stairs and finally emerged in the watery light of Heaven’s celestial ambiance. Before he’d even had time to blink, he was hit with a sense of deja vu so strong he actually had to turn around to check if the bulkhead enclosing the stairs was still there. No, he hadn’t been transported to a different place, a different time. It was the same skyscraper, built to reflect the predominant architectural patterns of Earth. It was utilitarian, impersonal. 

Except, the roof was something else entirely. Heaven’s apex was a broad white marble patio with dark granite balusters lining all four sides. Clouds curled up around the edges of the roof like mist, and a breeze blew a cool, moist air through Crowley’s feathers. Everywhere he looked, there were potted plants, representing every biome on Earth. Gigantic ceramic urns held fully grown trees; maples with leaves tressed in autumn red, prickly miniature spruces, drooping willows, quiver trees with twisty branches, figs, and apples, and cherry blossoms. Over there was a barrel of roses, and behind that, near the center of the roof, was a multi-level fountain featuring water hyacinths and fairy moss. 

He’d been here before. 

Long ago, before the Revolution, this place had been the great porch outside the throne room in the palace of Heaven. How often had Crowley stood there, looking over the edge at pink sunset clouds, or sitting on the banister to watch the stars rise over Paradise? There had been plants back then, too; Crowley had enjoyed tending to them. Maybe they were the six thousand year ancestors of the flora he now beheld. 

In his chest, his heart thudded madly. This place, the scent of roses and the gentle breeze, was bringing back memories that had been locked away for his whole life. He had been a part of this once; he’d lived in God’s palace with the other angels, he’d roamed the halls and the terraces and the gardens, he’d dined in the banquet hall and played music in the parlours. 

Once, it had been home. Now all that was left was the porch, the only remnant of a perfection that was never meant to last. 

There was a figure leaning over the banister near where Crowley had come up. He felt a jolt in his guts, the same sense of shocking timelessness that he’d been slammed with the moment he stepped out. 

The angel was wearing a long grey topcoat, which matched his dove-grey wings, and he had his back to Crowley. Apprehensively, Crowley approached, and with every step he felt as if he was walking backwards, against the gravity of past millennia, receding through the oceans of eons. 

He’d been here before. 

Not just this physical place, but here with Gabriel, standing on the edge of eternity and gazing out over the world they and God had created. 

Crowley stood next to Gabriel like he fit there, and their elbows brushed together on top of the stone rail. 

“So, you finally remember,” Gabriel said, not looking at Crowley. 

It was as if a floodgate had opened, and Crowley bowed his head under the weight of so many forgotten things. 


	14. Chapter 14

_ Raphael watched as the first dawn rose over the Earth, a glittering watery planet, brand-new, the jewel of the solar system. He stood at the front of a host of angels, Gabriel and Michael at his side, while the sun warmed their faces, painting the dark sky with colours that had no name yet. Radiant streaks of light parted the clouds, dazzling the onlookers with sublime beauty.  _

_ All this, and more to come, had been created out of love. A little ways apart from the other angels, God stood with Lucifer, their shapes mere silhouettes against the backdrop of brilliance. Together, they had done this, the artisans of creation.  _

_ Raphael brought a hand to his cheek and found that it was wet.  _

_ With a gesture, God beckoned to Her chosen angels, and as one Raphael and six others stepped forth to receive their orders. Raphael would be the healer in the world to come, a task which he accepted gratefully. To alleviate all the hurts of Mankind, to be a nanny to God’s future children, this was Raphael’s burden and his blessing. He knelt before God and Lucifer as the other Archangels were charged, each with a different responsibility.  _

_ Their business concluded, the angels dispersed and went about their customary duties; nudging the new, temperamental solar system back into its proper revolution, cultivating the forests and fields, protecting the unruly animals from accidental misfortune.  _

_ Raphael blinked out of the corporeal plane and reemerged in Heaven. There was time yet before the arrival of Adam, ages in fact; God wanted the world to be perfect. He wandered the glorious halls of Paradise, alone in his thoughts, until eventually he was joined by Gabriel. Arm in arm they walked to Raphael’s favourite place, the porch outside the Great Hall, which overlooked a vast, swirling field of clouds. The sky was the colour of morning.  _

_ Are you happy? Raphael asked his companion.  _

_ Of course. Aren’t you? Gabriel replied. He stroked one of Raphael’s glossy dark feathers, neatly combing it back in place.  _

_ Will humanity have a lot of ills, do you think?  _

_ I expect so. They’re going to be mortal, so it won’t be easy for them.  _

_ Why make them mortal, then? They could be like us, eternal.  _

_ Gabriel waved his hand, dismissive. It’s what God wants.  _

_ To Raphael, that answer didn’t satisfy, and after standing together in silence for some time, Gabriel left him to his musings.  _

_ Later, Raphael was lounging on a cloud, hair fanned out like a halo surrounding his head as he looked up at the endless sky. He wondered how far the universe went on; he’d never flown out past the edge of the solar system but he knew there must be more. After all, it had been he and the other Archangels who had scattered the stars, standing in the center of it all and forming those orbs of celestial energy in their palms, casting them over the rim to bring light to the darkness. But he was certain, during those times when he gazed upward from the Earth on a clear night, that there were more stars in the Heavens than were made by the angels.  _

_ The galaxy--the universe--was incomprehensibly vast. Even an angel couldn’t hope to fly the whole thing. _

_ Could he? Raphael sat up and stretched his wings. But he had duties in Heaven. Maybe someday he would get a chance to explore the cosmos.  _

_ One day, when Raphael was walking the Earth, he heard a shuddering cry, and upon turning the corner of a forest path he entered a glen and found the angel Lucifer kneeling over a small creature. The Seraph wept, his great tears cooling the fevered fur of a fawn, who lay on the ground with a broken leg.  _

_ What happened here? Raphael questioned, placing his hand on Lucifer’s shoulder.  _

_ The mother killed by wolves; the babe, broken, hardly escaped with its life. It will surely die soon without someone to care for it.  _

_ Raphael dropped to his knees and embraced Lucifer, who tucked his head under Raphael’s chin and shook. The fawn was so little, its speckled flank rose and fell with rapid breaths. Its eyes were dark and wild with pain.  _

_ Maybe I can help, Raphael said. He touched a finger to the fawn’s soft crown and sent a healing pulse into its body. Meat and bone knitted back together, and with a crack, its leg was put to right. Too quickly, the fawn jumped to its feet and stumbled, and undaunted, rose again. It looked at Raphael before running away, disappearing into the tawny underbrush.  _

_ Thank you, Lucifer said, holding Raphael’s hand against his lips.  _

_ Why does She let them suffer such pains?  _

_ Lucifer glanced at Raphael, surprise evident in his face. I’ve long wondered the same.  _

_ It doesn’t have to be this way, does it?  _

_ The other Archangels don’t have such doubts, Lucifer pointed out.  _

_ But you do, Raphael murmured, instinctively quieting his voice, though there was no one else around.  _

_ Lucifer squeezed his hand, and without another word, they parted. Raphael walked along the path as twilight descended upon the forest, hoping the fawn might come back so he could make sure it was safe. Something so small and fragile shouldn’t be left alone, fending off wolves in the wilderness.  _

_ Days passed on Earth, though in Heaven, time didn’t flow at the same rate. Not that time mattered much to an immortal being, but Raphael was sorely disappointed when he visited Earth for a fortnight to avoid a staff meeting and found that it hadn’t even started yet when he returned. Raphael sat at the big wooden table, listlessly staring at the scroll the Metatron had passed to each of them. Something about overseeing the cultivation of rainforests, seed distribution and organizing the workforce and such.  _

_ Barachiel leaned over and muttered in Raphael’s ear. Aren’t we supposed to be big picture stuff? This feels like a job for a Principality at most.  _

_ Raphael couldn’t help but agree.  _

_ Here, look what I made. Barachiel showed Raphael something under the table. It was a flower, compact and round, fitting into the palm of his hand. Even from a distance, Raphael could smell its sweet fragrance. What a treat! It was almost the same colour as Raphael’s hair.  _

_ It’s beautiful, Barachiel. Where will you plant it?  _

_ Everywhere on Earth. I want humans to see them and think of love.  _

_ You soft-heart, Raphael laughed. Then the Metatron rapped his knuckles on the table and glared at Raphael and Barachiel, both of whom attempted and failed to look contrite. The meeting continued, and Raphael daydreamed about flowers.  _

_ As a rule, angels didn’t require sleep in the same way as did the creatures on Earth, but many of them enjoyed it when there was nothing else to do. Raphael loved sleep; he found it refreshing, and always woke up with a clear mind. Except for the morning he was woken up by a rough hand shaking his shoulder.  _

_ Raphael, we’re needed. It was Uriel. Her brow was furrowed with some distress. _

_ What’s wrong? Raphael said, groggy. He brushed his long hair out of his face and shook his head to wake himself up.  _

_ There’s a situation on Earth. The Powers in charge of maintaining the Sahara Meadow have caught some kind of feather blight, and they have to rest before they can go back to work.  _

_ So? _

_ So we’re being sent in to supervise.  _

_ We have to water the bloody Meadow?  _

_ Yes, now let’s go before it dries up.  _

_ Uriel took his hand and transported them to Earth. They appeared near the southern edge of the largest meadow in the world. It took up nearly half the continent, located in the big northern chunk. Raphael recalled seeing it from above on several occasions when he’d gone to stretch his wings. It was all rolling hills covered with fields of dry grass, which danced in the wind in a flickering wave. Here and there were pockets of woodland, and many a babbling stream wound their watery ways through the foothills.  _

_ Scattered broadly over the southern plains was an encampment of angels. Tents and banners flapped in the hot, dry breeze. Uriel led the way to one of the largest tents, under which a company of angels sat, taking shelter from the sun. They looked ragged. Underfoot, the trodden grass was littered with shed feathers, and Raphael squatted to examine them. The barbs were split in messy disarray and the shafts were cracked at the bottom.  _

_ Don’t any of you clean your feathers? Raphael scolded the nearest group of angels, who sat on cots looking sickly and miserable.  _

_ You try flying around in the sun all day, one of them answered. Raphael admired her wings. They reminded him of an oriole, except for the fact that they were unkempt and losing feathers. Her shoulders were rubbed bare from scratching, and he could see drops of blood where the skin was broken.  _

_ The Archangels set about to work. Uriel directed the angels who could still fly and ushered them back to the task of carrying water to the Meadow, while Raphael walked up and down the rows of cots, healing the worst of the damage. He could tell these angels weren’t grooming properly; their feathers were so disordered it was a wonder they could fly at all. But the searing heat certainly wasn’t helping. As the morning sun rose to its zenith, the day only got hotter.  _

_ By the time Raphael had restored each angel to a stable condition, he was exhausted and sweating. His hands shook, and he felt empty of grace. Uriel came into the tent and sat down beside him on the reed mat, looking as tired as Raphael. He laid his head on her shoulder and rested his eyes.  _

_ Are you sure this place is meant to be a meadow? Raphael asked her. _

_ How do you mean? _

_ Seems to want to be a desert.  _

_ She heaved a great sigh. I don’t know, Raphael. I was told the Almighty wanted this meadow watered, so that’s what we’re doing.  _

_ There must be a more efficient way to water the land, because this just isn’t going to work in the long run. Look at these angels, too tired at the end of the day for wing maintenance, feathers dried out by the sun. Can’t we get a river through here? Or, I don’t know, an automatic watering system-- _

_ Raphael. She held up a hand to halt his stream of consciousness. Let’s just go home.  _

_ That was only the first of many frustrations. The other Archangels simply weren’t interested in his ideas for improvements. Barachiel was occasionally willing to entertain his thoughts but he was always too busy with a project of his own to work on anything Raphael came up with. Gabriel was being more insufferable than usual, and Michael was just… Terrifying. Raphael stayed out of her way when he could.  _

_ At least Lucifer seemed to enjoy his company. There was always a crowd hanging around Lucifer, and Raphael found himself gravitating toward them rather than the Archangels. Lucifer’s discontents were smart, charming. They had good ideas. They didn’t blindly accept the orders they were given; they questioned, and collaborated, and made things on Earth easier so they had free time to do whatever they wanted. It was much more efficient, working outside the book, though Raphael could sense Gabriel and Michael’s disapproval.  _

_ Raphael was sitting on the edge of a mountain in the desert, overlooking the river valley where the Garden was slated for construction. He popped a grape into his mouth, glad it wasn’t his job to transport bricks all day. On the ground, there was an Archangel directing the stock of building materials, but from such a distance Raphael couldn’t tell who it was. Piles of bricks and lumber built up in the field as the day went on, and wheels and lifts and endless coils of rope were brought in. It was going to be beautiful, Raphael knew. A little piece of Heaven on Earth for God’s favourites.  _

_ He hoped to see it when it was done.  _

_ Suddenly, he felt a tickle, and he pulled up his robe to see a snake slithering over his ankles. It had a triangular head and its scales were the colour of desert sand.  _

_ Pretty little thing, what are you doing up here? Are you lost?  _

_ Slit pupils revealed nothing as it gazed up at Raphael. Its tongue flicked out as if to taste his aura, testing what Raphael was made of. What a beautiful, sinuous creature. God had done right when She made these ones.  _

_ Do you want me to bring you to the base of the mountain? It’s quite a long way. Let me make your journey easier.  _

_ The snake seemed to consider for a moment, then it slithered up Raphael’s arm and twined around his shoulders. It was cool and surprisingly smooth against his neck, and its tongue flicked his ear. Somehow, its weight felt right, like it belonged there. Clutching its tubular body to ensure it wouldn’t fall, Raphael spread his wings and stepped off the edge, spiraling down to the base of the cliff, where he deposited his crawly friend. It slithered away beneath the rocks, and he watched the tip of its tail flick out of sight, envious of its uncomplicated freedom.  _

_ Construction on Eden was well underway, and walls seemed to build up in Heaven as surely as the walls of the Garden. Gabriel seemed to go out of his way to step on Raphael’s toes, while Uriel and Michael became less tolerant of their nonsense with every passing day. The other three Archangels were away more often than not, though no one really knew where they went. As for Lucifer, he never went anywhere without the company of his misfits, those angels who defied any rules they deemed foolish and arbitrary.  _

_ Raphael himself spearheaded one particular conflict; he and Barachiel were reviewing the landscaping blueprints for the Garden when he noticed a curious feature. It was barely a dot in the middle of a forest of other plants, marked with only a number, and Raphael paged through footnotes and footnotes on footnotes before he finally found its label. The tree of knowledge of good and evil. _

_ What do you think that’s all about? he asked after showing it to Barachiel.  _

_ It’s the forbidden fruit, I expect. _

_ Yeah, but right in the middle of everything else? How will they know not to eat it?  _

_ Put up a sign.  _

_ Raphael scoffed. How about we put the tree somewhere outside the Garden.  _

_ If you want to change the plan, take it up with God. I’m just the gardener.  _

_ Indeed, Raphael brought up his concerns with Gabriel, and the Metatron, and finally God Herself, but each time he was told not to worry about it; it was all part of the plan. But Raphael couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was such an obvious, glaring error. Mix the forbidden tree right in with the other trees. What if they picked up a windfallen fruit from the ground, not realizing it was from the wrong tree? What happened if new trees grew from the fruit of the forbidden one, or if the blossoms were cross-pollinated? Then would all the trees eventually become forbidden? Clearly, it was a bad plan.  _

_ Sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind, Raphael remarked to Lucifer one evening. They stood watching the sun set over the Garden wall, which was hardly waist-height yet.  _

_ Why? _

_ Nobody else questions this whole insane plan. What do we really know about it anyway? I mean, it seems to me--planting the tree right in the middle and all--that She’s setting them up to fail.  _

_ They’re supposed to learn to resist temptation. Be pure of heart.  _

_ Sounds like pedantic bullshit, in my opinion. _

_ Sharing a glance, they laughed, and Lucifer draped an arm over Raphael’s shoulder. They leaned their heads together as the first stars appeared in the night sky.  _

_ You’re not the only one with questions, Raphael. You’re not alone.  _

_ You? But you’re God’s favourite.  _

_ Doesn’t mean we always see eye-to-eye. She created us to work for Her, worship Her, and now She expects us to step aside when Her new creations come into being. We made this world, Raphael. Our labour, our blood, our tears. But it’s not for us, and that doesn’t sit right with me. Why create us at all? Are we just expected to line up and obey until the end of time?  _

_ It was chilly in the desert when the sun sank below the horizon, spreading it’s life-giving heat to the other side of the planet. Raphael shivered, and Lucifer wrapped him in his wings. Laying his head on Lucifer’s chest, Raphael allowed himself to be comforted and warmed by the great angel. His words were the first sane words he’d heard in ages. Surrounded by clockwork angels who bore their toy swords and crowns, revoltingly grateful, proud to be Mother’s little helpers, Raphael felt like an island battered by a raging river on all sides. But there were others who questioned the charade. He wasn’t alone.  _

_ Fly with me, Gabriel said.  _

_ They were standing on the porch again, with its view of infinity. It had been a while since they’d been there together, and Raphael hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it. Once upon a time, they had visited frequently, when the clouds were lit from below by the Earthly sun, or at night when they reflected the stars, looking like an endless glassy lake. Usually Raphael would arrive first and sit on the railing, and if he waited long enough eventually Gabriel would turn up and fold him into his arms. Ever since the Garden project was put into motion, they’d been too busy for such indulgences as contemplative reflection.  _

_ But that wasn’t really the reason, was it? Raphael could feel himself growing apart from the other angels. Michael and Uriel couldn’t stand him anymore. Barachiel had his flowers. The other two were missing and nearly forgotten. And Gabriel… He kept coming back to Raphael, kept offering chances, but Raphael was afraid if he accepted, he would break Gabriel’s heart.  _

_ There was a storm brewing. Dark clouds threatened the paradise of Heaven, and Raphael was drifting in the middle.  _

_ Gabriel hopped onto the railing and extended his hand.  _

_ Well. _

_ Once more couldn’t hurt, could it?  _

_ Raphael stepped up next to him. They entwined their fingers, and together, they fell off the edge into the abyss.  _

_ Every night, the stars beckoned. Their lights twinkled through Earth’s atmosphere, smiling on the little bubble planet with all its life teeming below. Raphael no longer knew which stars were his.  _

_ He was restless. Lucifer and God had both called a meeting at the same time tomorrow, and what was Raphael supposed to do? He couldn’t be in two places at once. Maybe if he asked, one could conveniently reschedule… Or he could skip both and read the meeting minutes later. It was probably nothing that couldn’t be sent in a memo anyway.  _

_ Blinking down to Earth, he dropped out of the sky and flew above the Garden, silent in the night. The walls were almost complete. On the eastern side, the scaffolding was being taken down, and the Gate was sturdy and secure. He’d heard they were posting guards now, but Raphael didn’t know who they thought might break in. When he’d asked Uriel about it, she’d just given him a sad look.  _

_ There was a light down below. Someone standing on the eastern wall with a torch. No, a sword, burning with holy flames. They didn’t see Raphael and he was content to remain unobserved.  _

_ Alighting on his customary cliffside, Raphael looked up at the sky and wondered what more there was to life. What wonders were out there, waiting to be explored? He was certain there was more than Earth and Heaven, and all at once, before he could change his mind, he leapt into the air and set a course for the stars.  _

_ With wings as wide as the horizon and dark as the unknowable void, he burst through the thin shell of atmosphere and emerged into space. For a moment he hovered over the planet with its mosaic of colours, and then skimming the celestial orb which endlessly revolved around it, he flew towards the center of the solar system. The sun outshone the brightest angel. When Adam took his first steps upon the Earth, would he look up and mistake the sun for the face of God? Yet, what was a god but a creator, and what was the sun but the creator of life in an otherwise cold and empty universe?  _

_ Raphael flared his wings and basked in the light. But curiosity soon overtook him and he flew beyond the reach of Sol’s benevolent warmth. It was icy on the edge, and as the sun receded into the velvety background he felt hollow with cold and lack of home. Regardless, he pushed on.  _

_ Neither on Earth nor in Heaven were to be found such beautiful sights as these. There were swirling gaseous clusters and strange constellations, and nebulae of riotous colours. He dodged through an asteroid field and saw seams of precious gems hidden in pockets of dark rock. Then, there were planets. Planets that he couldn’t believe, bursting with life created by other gods, or perhaps they had come into being alone and unguided. He landed on one, blinking through the thick cloud cover filled with dangerous lightening that protected the surface. On the ground he saw vast forests, deep canyons, a waterfall that tumbled for miles. There was a sweet smell in the air, and flowers turned to face him as he walked through a meadow. Petals shivered, and he wondered if they were trying to communicate. If only he could understand the language.  _

_ Promising that someday he would return, he flew away and continued his journey. He explored several more planets, each one stranger and more wonderful than the last. Why did the angels stay on Earth when they had a whole galaxy to play in? Speaking of galaxies, was there an end to this one? How far would he have to fly before he reached the edge? And what lay beyond?  _

_ Eventually, he came upon a star that was different from all the others. This one was a dim, deep colour, and it gave off a feeble warmth. A sick sun. Well, who better than Raphael to come to its aid? He perched on an asteroid some distance away and looked at the ethereal orb.  _

_ To his surprise, it looked back. Though it had no eyes or indentations, Raphael could feel its burning scrutiny. He felt small.  _

_ What manner of being was this? It was old, unbearably so, and profoundly sad. Raphael dropped to his knees before the gravity of this creature’s agony, knowing that he was a fool for thinking he, nought but an Archangel, could aid such as this.  _

_ Who are you? he yelled, voice aching, but the sound was lost the moment it left his lips.  _

_ Without words, the sun spoke to him. Pictures exploded behind his eyes, and he found himself hovering over a system with eight planets, revolving around a young star that embraced them all with its buoyant light. There was water on the third planet, and a great volcano under the ocean spewed forth considerable heat. Lightning cracked the sky, and the atmosphere was heavy and charged. Water dripped onto hot clay and within the minuscule chemical environment of the droplet, the first cell began to form.  _

_ Then abruptly, the scene changed and the planet was covered in thick growth of ancient plants, huge drooping leaves and curling, fern-like fronds. The air was cloying and Raphael felt sweat drip down his back, even though this was just a memory. His attention was directed to a grove of plants, or was it one plant with many stems? Feet bare, he walked over the springy moss that coated the ground and opened himself up to the organic energy that suffused the grove. It was alive, in the most profound way, like a vigorous youthful spring. And it was undeniably intelligent. Raphael felt it scan him through to the soul, or was it the long-ago star that so held this strange organism’s regard?  _

_ Millennia later, the trees with their papery bark and sweeping branches had risen to stewardship of the planet. They were everywhere, from the highest mountains to the edge of the most distant ocean, but they never took more than they needed. Wherever they lived, other life thrived. Astonishing flowers bloomed in niches in their trunks, and between the roots peeked the faces of small animals. If Heaven was a paradise, then what was the word for this place?  _

_ They communicated with other groves across the land by dropping leaves in intricate patterns, by growing seeds with a particular taste, and by sharing water through the vast subterranean root system. It was peaceful and quiet--how could it not be?--in a world where it took months to say hello.  _

_ But then, when that solar system had seen more years than Raphael had seen seconds, the star began to fade. Age dulled its fires, and one by one the planets slowly turned to ice, starting from the outer edge. The forests watched their cosmic neighbors freeze. At the end, the trees which had so long kept the third planet in utopic harmony shed their leaves in a swirling rain and said goodbye to their mother, the dying star. And the star wept and swelled with the force of its sorrow.  _

_ Returned back to himself, Raphael’s chest heaved and his feathers brushed the surface of the asteroid. He had never known such love, or such pain, and it threatened to overwhelm him. Against all reason, he wished he could go back in time and visit the tree planet at its prime, when those heralds stood at every peak and sang their delight over the hills. But it was long gone, dead so long ago that there was only one left who remembered it.  _

_ And that One was on the verge of cooling. Raphael was young, he had never witnessed the death of a star, had never known that stars could die. Now he was the only witness to the great star’s final moments. _

_ I will remember, he promised.  _

_ The dying star watched over him as he flew home.  _

_ Agony. Flames licked his skin and singed his feathers and his screams were unheeded in the infernal, fiery gulf. Maybe it was a blessing that he couldn’t feel his legs, couldn’t move them, though he saw his own blood pooling under him from the fatal break that had severed his spine. No happy sight alleviated his sore eyes, just the darkness and the flames and if he turned his head, he could make out another shattered body lying some distance away. They lay on their back, same as he, but their wing was bent at the wrong angle and the feathers were streaked with blood.  _

_ He had to help them. _

_ But how could he help when he couldn’t move?  _

_ It was difficult to hold a thought in his head through the pain and confusion, like smoke sifting through a sieve. There had been a battle, of that he was sure. They had lost. Or was this what victory looked like in war?  _

_ Far above his head was a blanket of clouds, which, as he watched, solidified into the ceiling of a cavern. Cast out. Sealed off. Never to return. But where did he come from before this, and how did he know if he wanted to go back? The ground under him was solid and thrummed with energy, like a volcano about to burst, alive with potential. The sky--the ceiling-- was solid too. It was a vast cavern within the living bowels of the Earth. Maybe this place was the inside of a dovecote, and he was the pigeon coming home to safety from the hungry foxes.  _

_ Another cry came from the fallen spirit beside him. Despite the pain, he dragged himself, crawling over the rough stones, until he reached their side. Up close, the wing was much worse than he’d first thought. Fragile, shattered bones poked through the delicate skin. Eyes frantic, the pitiful being clutched at his hands. _

_ Who are you?  _

_ He thought back. In his mind he saw pictures of faces that felt familiar, of a palace and an unfinished garden, and he knew that he had been there before and he could never go back. Memories of colour and scent and adventure and tiresome meetings and paperwork blended in a confused haze, like the half-forgotten details of someone else’s life.  _

_ I don’t remember. _

_ What happened to us? the broken angel asked.  _

_ I think we fell.  _

_ Why? What did we do wrong?  _

_ At those words, delirious and pleading, he felt his heart harden against those who had caused so much pain.  _

_ Shh, he said in a comforting hiss, and laid his hands gently on the fractured wing. I’m here now. Let me help you.  _


	15. Chapter 15

Crowley pressed his face into his hands and tried to calm his shuddering breaths. He wasn’t going to pass out in front of Gabriel, it would be too embarrassing. 

“Did you know?” Crowley asked when he’d regained some of his composure. 

“What?”

“That I was Raphael.” 

Gabriel crooked an eyebrow over one lilac eye. “Of course.” 

The Archangel was too guarded; Crowley couldn’t tell if he was smug or regretful or if he simply didn’t care. But once, he’d known Gabriel almost better than he’d known himself, and the loss struck him, a dull ache between his ribs. “Don’t you think that was something I might have wanted to know!?” 

“What difference would it have made?”

“I don’t know! It might have changed everything!” 

That condescending smile reminded Crowley why he’d stopped spending time with Gabriel six thousand years ago. He’d always been a bit too full of himself, and evidently time hadn’t smoothed out his flaws. 

Cracking his knuckles, Crowley took a moment to remind himself why it would be a bad idea to punch an Archangel, but also to really think about what he’d said. Would his life have been different if he’d always known he was the Archangel Raphael? He’d Fallen, the same as any demon, forsaken by his Creator and cast into the cavernous inferno that was the Underworld. He remembered the pain, more vividly than he’d ever been able to recall before, and the many long days it had taken his broken body to heal. More memories surfaced of the days after the Fall, of demons writhing in agony, the acrid scent of burnt feathers, the compassion of Lucifer and Beelzebub as they rallied their wounded and gave hope to the hopeless. The Fallen had joined together in a singular purpose; they’d made a new home for themselves and set themselves a new task, countering every heavenly miracle on Earth with an infernal one. For a while, they’d had their own version of Paradise: Pandemonium. But it hadn’t lasted. The demons were as disagreeable as the angels these days. 

Maybe that’s how it was supposed to be. 

If Crowley had known he was Raphael, one of the most powerful angels, chosen by God to love and heal the ills of humanity… He might have hated Heaven even more. But he couldn’t change the past, even if he’d wanted to, which, now that he thought about it, he didn’t. Because it had all worked out, in the end, hadn’t it? He’d met Aziraphale. 

“Hmmph. I suppose it doesn’t matter now, anyway,” Crowley said. “I made my choices, and I’m happy with ‘em. Heaven was always a bit too stuffy for my tastes, anyway.” 

“Are you?” Gabriel scratched at the railing. 

“Huh?”

“Happy?” 

An impossibly long time ago, lifetimes past, Crowley had asked Gabriel the same question. He’d said  _ Of course _ so easily, as if he’d never considered another possibility. Now, Crowley looked Gabriel in the eye and saw that his answer had changed. So had Crowley’s, for that matter. He’d never been content in Heaven, playing house with God and the other Archangels. But he’d carved a niche for himself on Earth, one he fit into perfectly. And though he’d never have dreamed it possible, that niche had expanded over the years to include a love shaped like Aziraphale. 

“I am happy, Gabriel. It’s taken me a long time to get here, but I’m right where I want to be.” 

“How? Everything collapsed after the Fall. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be, angels and demons separated. We were all one, back when Heaven was Paradise.” 

“Maybe we’ve just grown up. Mommy kicked us out of the nest.”

“Kicked  _ you _ out.”

“No, all of us. Haven’t heard much from Her lately, have you? Gabriel, maybe this is what She intended all along, for us to make our own damn choices and live without hiding underneath Her great glorious skirts.” 

For a moment, Gabriel looked as if he was considering. Then, “Nah. It’s your fault we lost our Paradise, same way you got Adam and Eve kicked out of the Garden.”

“That’s debatable,” Crowley hedged. “Why would God give us free will if She didn’t want us to use it?”

Gabriel didn’t have an answer, just a sour look. 

Crowley took that as his cue to leave. He turned his back on Gabriel and returned through the garden of potted plants to the stairs, but before he went back down, he remembered what Aziraphale had wanted him to do. 

“Hey,” he called to Gabriel. “There’s not going to be a war, you know. Nobody wants it, ‘cept you, and Michael, maybe. We’re too alike, angels and demons. You and me.”

One of Gabriel’s wings twitched up in a half-hearted shrug. Maybe someday Crowley would get through to him, but for the time being he left him to sulk in his dour ruminations. Small doses, that was all Crowley could tolerate of most angels.

Though there was one he desperately hoped to spend the rest of his life with. 

\---

The dark silk sheets smelled like Crowley, just as Aziraphale had hoped. When night had descended upon London and still Crowley hadn’t returned, Aziraphale had abandoned his lonely bookshop and made his way to Crowley’s flat, to surround himself with Crowley’s things as a substitute for Crowley himself. It didn’t take away the sting of his absence, the sting of uncertainty, but it was a comfort all the same. Aziraphale wrapped himself in blankets that felt like home and slept until the sun rose. 

Restless with dawn, Aziraphale wandered from room to room in Crowley’s flat, examining his furniture, the art hanging on the walls, a stack of catalogues on the coffee table.  _ BBC Gardeners’ World _ was sitting on top, and Aziraphale smiled as he thumbed through it. He’d only learned about Crowley’s love of plants when he’d spent the night after the end of the world. Maybe Crowley should have played Warlock’s gardener, and Aziraphale his nanny. Though, the sight of Crowley in the severe tweed suit of Nanny Ashtoreth--modest, yet shapely--was not one Aziraphale wanted to forget. She was stunning, and Aziraphale had never taken the chance to tell her. 

Well. Maybe he could correct that error once Crowley returned. 

Ambling into Crowley’s plant room, he was impressed by the level of care that went into each flower and herb. Clearly, Crowley loved them, because they were healthy and green and heavy with fragrant petals. 

“Lovely little things, aren’t you?” Aziraphale cooed over a pink African violet sitting in the windowsill. It was blocked from direct sunlight by a sheer curtain, through which Aziraphale could see the hazy shapes of the city. Next to the window was an English ivy trailing its fronds from a hanging basket. The vines were beautiful, with glossy variegated leaves, and it looked like it would be at home clinging to the wall of a stately inner-city brownstone or climbing a cottage garden trellis. 

Or maybe it was right where it wanted to be, in Crowley’s flat. 

“You’re doing so well,” he said to a tall tree with long, spiky leaves. Aziraphale’s heart felt warm with love.

“You’re not saying nice things to my plants, are you?” came a voice from the arched doorway. 

Delighted, Aziraphale whipped around to see the lanky form of his demon leaning against the wall. His sunglasses were hanging off his shirt, and his golden eyes were fond and inviting. “Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale ran into his embrace and held him tightly, as if it had been two weeks and not two days since they’d seen each other. 

He touched Crowley’s cheek, feeling the roughness of stubble under his fingertips, and then Crowley was kissing him, his mouth hot and insistent against Aziraphale’s. One of Crowley’s hands was at the back of Aziraphale’s head, threading through his hair and holding him steady. It felt so good, and right, and Aziraphale couldn’t imagine being anywhere else in the world. 

“Where were you?” Aziraphale queried, kissing Crowley’s lips, his jaw, his neck.

Crowley’s hands slid down Aziraphale’s back, pulling him closer. “Where was I? Where were  _ you _ , Angel? I got back last night and you weren’t at the shop.” 

“I missed you, so I came here. Thought you’d stop at home first, and I wanted to wait for you.” 

With an uncharacteristically shy smile, Crowley said, “I did go home first.” 

Aziraphale blushed.  _ Home. _ His bookshop. But of course he would think of it as home, it was where they had always met without fear of being seen or overheard. They’d spent countless hours enjoying each other’s company in the cozy back room, drinking tea in the mornings and wine in the evenings. During the past eleven years, the bookshop had been their respite from the trials and tribulations of raising the Antichrist, where they’d shed their disguises and shared their triumphs and commiserated in their woes. 

“When I couldn’t find you, I called around to see if any of our friends knew where you were--we have got to get you a mobile, by the way--but no one did. So, I went to Heaven.”

“What? How does that follow?” 

“Well… I was mildly concerned that Gabriel might have come after you.” His voice took on a conspiratorial tone. “You know, I think upstairs is still upset with us over the whole Armageddon business. It’s been a month and change, you’d think they’d be over it by now.” 

Aziraphale laughed at the preposterousness of that statement. “Right. Heaven, the holders of six thousand year old grievances, might get over us in a month.”

“Eh.” Crowley shrugged. “The rest of the world has moved on already. Come to think of it, ‘the rest of the world’ these days seems to include most of the angels and demons as well. It’s just the higher-ups who are bent on revenge and whatnot.” 

“Anyway, going back to your  _ mild concern _ over my potential kidnapping…”

Crowley’s eyes sparkled.

“Did you find what you needed in Heaven?” 

Fingers brushed the sides of Aziraphale’s face, tilting his chin up to meet Crowley’s lips once again. Aziraphale felt the change in Crowley, the subtle stiffening of his body, the downward cast of his gaze. Wanting more than anything to take away his pain, but knowing words weren’t up to the task, Aziraphale kissed him roughly and cupped the back of his neck, offering whatever comfort he could. The way Crowley sighed made Aziraphale feel like he was holding onto something fragile, a bird with delicate wings and an ethereal song. 

“I remember it now,” Crowley said softly. “Heaven, Paradise, the Garden, all of it. I remember making constellations and nebulae, and planting trees in the rainforests, and healing angels when they were hurt. I was supposed to be the healer of mankind, but I never got that chance.” Crowley paused and smoothed back a lock of Aziraphale’s hair.

Aziraphale thought of the many years he had known Crowley: his horror upon hearing of God’s plan to initiate Noah’s flood in Mesopotamia, his somber appraisal of the Crucifixion, his unspoken dedication to kindness always hidden behind a veneer of mischief. Crowley was gentle, and honest, even if he wasn’t always good by the book. 

“I think you’ve helped far more than you know.” 

“Aziraphale… I might’ve been Raphael in the beginning, but that’s not who I am anymore. I’ve chosen my own path. And something I realized when I was up there talking to Gabriel: Paradise is pale in comparison to what I have here, with you. I wouldn’t trade this for anything.” 

Heart beating madly against his ribs, Aziraphale tried to put all the love and gratitude he felt toward Crowley in the heat of his eyes, in a touch of lips. For so long he’d been trying to keep up, and finally he’d begun to realize it wasn’t a matter of running after him, but letting him in. Crowley loved him. It was as easy as that. 

_ Mine. _ He pressed into Crowley savagely, bringing their lips together in a searing kiss. Without hesitation he thrust his tongue into Crowley’s mouth, all hot need and impatient devotion. Aziraphale felt like fire, and Crowley was the oxygen he needed to keep burning, hotter and hotter until they were both consumed. 

They weren’t close enough, with layers of clothing in the way. He wanted the fervid slide of flesh against flesh, the feeling of Crowley’s body, all of him, under his hands. Unbuttoning Crowley’s shirt, Aziraphale skimmed it over his shoulders, caressing his arms, his chest, his soft, flat belly. Crowley was a work of art, Aziraphale his reverent admirer, and he wanted to explore every facet of his exquisite beauty. 

“I want you, Crowley,” he said, bending his head to flick Crowley’s nipple with his tongue. The other, he pinched between his fingers until it hardened under his touch, and Crowley leaned back against the wall with a wordless sigh. He crossed his hands behind Aziraphale’s neck, gently pulling him closer, and Aziraphale continued to kiss Crowley’s chest, grazing his teeth lightly over his sensitive nipple. 

“You can bite harder, Aziraphale, I promise I won’t tell.” 

With a crooked smile against Crowley’s skin, Aziraphale obliged and nipped the loose flesh at the base of his neck. He kissed, and bit, and soothed with the flat of his tongue, working Crowley’s neck until it was pink and flushed. Then he moved down his chest, back to his nipples which he sucked and sunk his teeth into until Crowley was writhing under him. He was so lithe and sinewy and Aziraphale loved the way he moved. 

Aziraphale unhooked Crowley’s belt and slid his trousers down to his ankles, palming his cock through the thin material of his boxers. He was hard, and so responsive as Aziraphale gripped and stroked him through slippery silk. Crowley’s breath hitched, and he arched his pelvis into Aziraphale’s hand. 

“I have a perfectly good bed, you know,” Crowley said as he caressed Aziraphale’s cheek, brushing his thumb over his lips. “Why don’t we, uh--aaah!”

Without taking his eyes off Crowley’s, Aziraphale pushed his boxers around his hips and stroked his cock the way they both wanted, raw and hot and sensual. They burned with primal need for each other, and it felt so right to trade kisses and hold each other in a lustful embrace. Angels were made to love after all, so the way Aziraphale wanted to pin Crowley down and fuck him had to be nothing short of holy. 

Aziraphale took a step back and waited for Crowley to step out of his clothes before taking him to the bedroom. Crowley sat on the bed and pulled Aziraphale in by the lapels so he was standing between his legs, bodies a hair’s breadth apart. Was it a temptation or a blessing, to give in to Crowley’s kisses, to satisfy him in carnal rapture? Well, Aziraphale had gotten good at both, as part of their Arrangement. He’d give Crowley whatever he wanted, whatever he needed, all he could take. 

Shedding his own clothes, Aziraphale leaned in and bit Crowley’s neck without preamble. Crowley gasped and clung to him, one arm wrapped around Aziraphale’s shoulders while the other gripped his hips. After a moment spent enjoying the taste of his skin and the delicious sounds Crowley was making, Aziraphale laid him down and pushed his knees apart. 

So wanton, so gorgeous. Crowley was looking at him intently, eyes darkened with hunger. His cock was swollen and straining against his belly, and Aziraphale stimulated the glans within the circle of his fingers. With his other hand he cupped Crowley’s bollocks, touching with the gentlest pressure. Crowley seemed to like it; his shoulders relaxed into the bed and he made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. 

When the heat pooling between his thighs became too much to ignore, Aziraphale slicked himself up with lube and pushed into Crowley. His muscles clenched around Aziraphale’s cock, so he went slowly, waiting for him to relax before entering him to the hilt. 

“With my body, I thee worship,” Aziraphale murmured, and he began fucking Crowley in earnest, sliding in and out with a hot drag of pleasure. With whimpering gasps, Crowley rocked his hips to meet Aziraphale’s thrusts, moving with him, increasing the force of their contact and the undeniable fever of friction between their bodies. Aziraphale was burning, an inferno humming within him, and it was always only Crowley, his sweet, darling Crowley, who could quench his fire. 

Crowley flung his legs around Aziraphale’s hips, drawing him in deeper. “You feel so good, Angel,” he said breathlessly. 

Aziraphale found Crowley’s prostate with his cock, brushing against the swollen gland, making Crowley writhe and buck his hips with a desperate groan. Determined to wring all the pleasure out of Crowley that he could, Aziraphale wrapped his hand around Crowley’s wet cock and stroked, and his breathing quickened to match the pace of Aziraphale’s thrusts. Crowley’s eyes were screwed shut, and one hand, stretched out over his head, made a fist in the blankets. He was all creamy flesh and taut muscle and Aziraphale drank him in greedily. 

“Fuck, I’m so close,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale locked onto his golden gaze. He was beautiful.

“Shh, I’ve got you, darling.” 

Moments later, Crowley spilled into Aziraphale’s hand, jerking his hips in uncoordinated euphoria. His breathing was ragged and he watched Aziraphale with something like rapture. 

The hum within Aziraphale became a roar and he reached his peak, the liquid pleasure of his orgasm sweeping through him. Desire slaked for the time being, he pulled out of Crowley and cleaned them up with a wave of his hand. Bonelessly, Crowley crawled up the bed and wrapped himself in blankets, inviting Aziraphale to lay at his side. 

Aziraphale snuggled in next to him, and Crowley laid his head on his chest. Crowley’s body was warm and smooth; the mere fact of his presence was a comfort Aziraphale had never known before. It was safe and right to love Crowley. Why had he ever hesitated?

“You really can’t stop thinking about marriage, huh?” Crowley asked. He reached up and tangled his fingers in Aziraphale’s hair.

“Er. What?” He blushed. 

“ _ With this ring, I thee wed, with my body I thee worship… _ I’m starting to think you want something from me, Angel. _ ”  _

When he’d said it, he’d been thinking more along the lines of appreciating Crowley’s gorgeous, supple body and giving him all the satisfaction he deserved. “I, well--that is, I wasn’t really considering the grander implications--” Aziraphale stammered until Crowley pressed a kiss to his lips. 

“I would marry you in a heartbeat if that’s what you want.” 

Again, Aziraphale kissed Crowley, sighing into the sweetness of his mouth. That kind of talk had staying power, not that there was ever any doubt. “I’m not in a hurry, Crowley. I want to enjoy  _ us _ , enjoy what we have now.” For so long, he had denied himself the simple pleasure of Crowley’s affection, out of fear, out of mutual self-preservation. But now here they were, and nothing could be more perfect. “Besides, we have nearly six thousand years of dates to make up for.” 

“Hmm. Better get started then. But maybe after a nap.” 

Aziraphale skimmed his fingers over Crowley’s arms, his back, relishing the freedom of being able to touch him. Eventually, Crowley’s breathing evened out. His body was comfortable and pliant with the stillness of sleep, gossamer in Aziraphale’s arms. A flood of adoration warmed Aziraphale to his toes, and soon, he too drifted into a cozy sleep. 

Angels were made for worship, after all. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally done! My first novel-length story! Thanks for reading!

London was adorned in the raiments of autumn, and Crowley had never before appreciated the changing of the seasons as much as he did now. When each morning dawned crisper and colder than the last, it made sleeping in with Aziraphale all the more satisfying. When their breath puffed out in white clouds in the chilly evenings, it made the warmth of Aziraphale’s lips burn so much brighter in comparison. Crowley looked forward to the cold because it meant Aziraphale would wrap an arm around his shoulder, or offer his coat, or bring him a steaming mug of tea.

Though, come to think of it, Aziraphale had always done those things. Crowley just hadn’t allowed himself to hear the unspoken words beneath the actions. 

They got off at the Chalk Farm tube station and took Regent’s Park Road to Primrose Hill. The maple trees covered the slopes of the hill in a tapestry of colours, red, yellow, pink, green, with the blue sky above and the skyline of London emerging in the distance as they neared the summit. The grass was neatly clipped, and the paths were lined with fallen leaves that crunched underfoot. In the last of the evening light, families made their way back home, joggers reached the top of the hill and turned back towards Regent’s Park, and young couples sat on the benches holding hands. 

Aziraphale looked radiant, cheeks turning a rosy brown in the crisp wind and the long walk. If Crowley had found a flower, he might have picked it up and put it behind Aziraphale’s ear.

Honestly, the world had no business being so beautiful.

Crowley hadn’t been so happy in, well, ever. He sat in the grass with Aziraphale and looked out over the park, at the absolutely stunning autumn foliage behind which rose the peaks of London’s skyscrapers. 

They had spent the last several days like this; exploring London, making their way down the list of London date ideas recommended by the official London visitors guide, basking freely in each other’s company. Yesterday, Aziraphale had managed to drag Crowley back to the Globe, and now Crowley was trying to convince him to take the Ghost Bus Tour. Just for laughs, of course. And to see if they might mention some of Crowley’s spooky endeavours of the past. 

The sun was sinking below the hill, setting the crimson maples aflame. Aziraphale leaned his head on Crowley’s shoulder and there they stayed until the last light disappeared behind the city and it became too cold to sit any longer. Then, hand in chilly hand, they made their way back to Aziraphale’s bookshop. 

If only they could stay like this forever, not a worry in the world other than deciding the best way to waste time. But by the tone of Ligur’s texts, he was getting impatient waiting for Crowley, and the overhanging sense of guilt really was putting a damper on his early-romance bliss. Unfortunately, though Crowley was a powerful healer by birthright, there wasn’t exactly a medical reference manual for restoring one’s demonhood. He wanted to be sure he could really help, because he couldn’t bear to face Ligur if he failed him again. 

Somehow, he had to make it work.

The next day, Crowley and Aziraphale drove to a trendy cafe in Brixton for a late breakfast. With a clear sky above, and his angel beside him, and the Bentley’s engine purring as if it was happy to be out again, Crowley felt as near to perfection as it was possible to feel. He zipped through the streets of London, heedless of the narrow roads and the late morning traffic, and nearly swerved off Lambeth Bridge into the Thames when the radio crackled to life and shouted his name. 

“Do try not to discorporate us, will you?” Aziraphale said shakily, after they had crossed the bridge. “We’re still not exactly in good graces with our head offices.” 

“You worry too much.” Crowley eyed the radio, which was emitting a staticky whine. He thumped the dashboard. “Who’s there?” 

“It’s me, you arsehole.” Ligur’s voice. “Did you get my text?”

“Er. Which text would that be?”

“The one saying I’m going to be at your flat by half ten this morning.” 

Crowley checked the clock. It was a quarter to eleven. “Obviously not. Sorry about that. Perhaps we can reschedule?” 

“No. You’ve been dodging me since you got back from Vegas. Can you fix me or not, Crowley, because I can feel my life ticking away, and if I die in some horrible bloody accident before you get your shit together I swear I will come back and haunt your arse until the end of time.” 

That was… hard to argue with. He gave a sidelong glance to Aziraphale, who was smirking. “Look, Ligur, can I meet you in a couple hours? I’m sort of busy at the moment.”

“Doing what? My immortal life is at stake here, Crowley, and you seem to be lacking a certain sense of urgency.” 

“I’m as urgent as anything, I swear. I have a plan. Well. Most of a plan. It’s just, I’m taking my beloved out to breakfast this morning. I’m driving through Vauxhall right now.” 

“Your beloved, huh. Now remind me, would that be Evangeline, Nathaniel, or Aziraphale?” 

“Shut the fuck up, Ligur,” Crowley growled. 

Aziraphale laughed. 

“Wait, is he there with you? We haven’t properly met yet. Nice to meet you, Aziraphale. I’m Ligur.”

“Enchanted.”

Ligur continued, to Aziraphale, “So, does he actually have a plan, or is he just bullshitting?”

Luckily, Crowley was driving, which gave him a convenient excuse not to look at Aziraphale. Over the last few days, he had implied to Aziraphale that he was working something out with Ligur, and he had implied to Ligur that he and Aziraphale were wrapping up their research into the healing properties of Archangels. Well, it wasn’t Crowley’s fault if neither of them asked any clarifying questions, was it? 

Aziraphale laid his hand on Crowley’s knee and gave it a squeeze. “Have no fear, my little ducks. I have a plan. Ligur, can you meet us at my bookshop on Saturday evening, say around six?” 

“Yeah, text me the address. I’ll be there.” 

“Excellent. Well then, come Saturday, we shall make these matters even. Adieu!” 

“Right. See you both later. And this time, you’re not skipping out on me, Crowley.”

With a glower, Crowley responded, “Wouldn’t dream of it. Hey, hang on a mo’, Ligur. How the Heaven are you talking to me through my radio?” 

Through a crackle of static, Ligur laughed, and then a new voice joined the conversation. “That’d be my doing.” 

“Hastur,” Crowley groaned. “I should have known. You’re always bloody lurking.” 

Then Aziraphale introduced himself to Hastur, and the three of them chatted rather jovially the rest of the way to Brixton. As for Crowley, he sat back quietly and listened to his new lover talk to those two old acquaintances that he was surprised to find he now considered friends. 

Saturday evening came by faster than any Saturday had ever come along before. Crowley paced back and forth in his flat, cursing the passage of time. He wasn’t ready. He couldn’t do this.

He had to do this. 

He was tempted to run away to Switzerland and hide out in a cave in the snowy Alps for the next several centuries. 

But, Ligur was counting on him. Crowley had a responsibility to his friend, and what kind of worthless demon would he be if he left him in the lurch? 

What if there was nothing he could do? What if the damage was permanent? 

_ Maybe we can become motivational speakers, _ Crowley thought to himself in a bitter humour.  _ The men who made peace with their demons. _

What he really needed to do was get moving, because if he didn’t leave now, he’d be late. Ligur would be waiting for him by now, along with Hastur, most likely, and Aziraphale too. This was the big moment, and the demon formerly known as Raphael would sink or swim in the harsh light of a Soho evening. 

He flopped down on his sofa and threw his arm over his eyes, wishing he could just go back in time and punch himself in the face before this whole dilemma even got started. Aziraphale had been right; holy water was too dangerous to mess around with, and if only Crowley had just  _ listened… _

The ringing of his mobile startled him. Aziraphale’s name popped up on the screen, and Crowley answered sheepishly. “Um. Hi.” 

“Crowley, where are you? You’re late. Everyone’s here.” 

“Yeah, I’m on the way. Just, you know, thought I’d do some warm-up stretches beforehand. Be there in fifteen, tops.” 

For a moment, Aziraphale was quiet, and Crowley had to check to see if he’d accidentally hung up the phone. 

“Are you okay?”

Crowley hated when people asked him that question. If they were at the point where they needed to ask, then he obviously wasn’t okay, so why bother? But this was Aziraphale asking, and that made a world of difference. “Yeah, Angel. Only… I don’t know if I can do this.” 

“You can.”

“But I don’t really know that, do I? I haven’t healed anyone for six thousand years, shouldn’t I start with something small, like a paper cut, or something? This is all brand new. I don’t think anyone’s ever done this before, or if they did, then they forgot to post the bloody instruction video on Youtube. What if it doesn’t work, and Ligur dies a mortal death, and I have to live with what I did forever?” 

“I’ve seen you work greater miracles than this, Crowley. You have a compassionate heart, and I have the utmost faith that you can help your friend. Trust yourself.” 

Crowley blinked up at the ceiling, swallowing back the rush of emotions. His angel had faith in him.

Well, that would have to be enough. 

“Oh, hey, if it’s not too much trouble, could you pick up a dozen scones from the bakery on your way here?” 

Half an hour later, scones in hand, Crowley entered Aziraphale’s bookshop and was surprised to find the interior had been shuffled. The two bookshelves closest to the front had been shoved against the wall, leaving a large open space just inside the door. There was a card table set up with baked goods and tea and wine, making the whole place smell like chocolate chip cookies. Along the check-out counter and around the edge of the front window were strings of fairy lights. It was very much a tea party ambiance, and Crowley was momentarily thrown for a loop. 

Evidently, when Aziraphale had said ‘everyone’ over the phone, he’d meant it literally. Crowley set down his bag of bakery treats and looked at all the familiar faces. There was Ligur, talking to Aziraphale over by the counter. Hastur was sitting at the table, crunching a biscuit, while his frog kept an eye on the room. In the window well sat Lila, with her arms crossed, looking as stern and regal as ever even as she fed bits of strawberry to her bat. Amy was there, and Sahra too, and the pair were perusing Aziraphale’s bookshelves. 

Newt and Anathema were there too for some Godforsaken reason. Newt was darting nervous glances at all the angels and demons in the room, while Anathema was in her element, conversing with an angel Crowley didn’t immediately recognize. Then he turned at the jingle of the shop bell and Crowley saw that it was Barachiel. 

_ Oh, joy. _

Aziraphale fluttered over and kissed him on the cheek, and then Crowley began the arduous task of greeting all these people who’d come to witness the resurrection of Ligur. Lila shook his hand and gave him a tentative smile. Next, Anathema wrapped him in a hug, and Amy clapped him on the shoulder, and Barachiel tried to draw him into a long-winded discussion about gardening, which Crowley wouldn’t mind continuing at a more convenient moment. 

“This delightful young lady was telling me about her herb garden and all the wonderful concoctions she brews. Do you know, I had begun to think humans had quite lost the art of natural medicine, with all their fancy ‘scientific’ breakthroughs and whatnot. We gave them plants and herbs for a reason, but oh no, it’s just never enough for the sons of Adam. I remember the days when pain relief was a warm bath and a cup of ginger tea, but now even curing a cold requires ten different medications. It’s because of all the side effects, you know. Actually,” he turned to Anathema, “speaking of pain relief, my old joints have been bothering me of late--”

Crowley stepped in. “Your joints are fine. Don’t listen to him, Anathema. Angels don’t get arthritis.” 

“Well, young man, you might find yourself singing a different tune when you get to be my age.” Barachiel’s eyes sparkled with mischief. 

With a helpless gesture, Crowley left Anathema to fend for herself. She could handle the old windbag better than he could, anyway. Still, he tapped Barachiel fondly on the shoulder before snaking off to find Aziraphale. He’d been a good friend a long time ago, and that had to count for something. 

“Quite the shindig you’ve thrown, Angel,” Crowley said, hopping up to sit on the counter next to where Aziraphale and Ligur stood. 

“Yes, it’s quite something, isn’t it?” Aziraphale was practically glowing. “We’ve never had all our friends together in one place before. Oh, I hope you don’t mind I didn’t invite Shadwell. I didn’t think he’d take well to the present company, and I couldn’t exactly invite Tracy and not him, so I just didn’t call either of them. And I did invite the Dowlings, but Thaddeus was busy, of course, and Harriet is at Warlock’s first piano recital. He just started playing last month!” 

“It’s perfect, Aziraphale.” 

And it really was. Angels and demons and humans, all in one room, getting along swimmingly. It could almost make one believe in hope. Or maybe it was the power of a good English tea and biscuits. Either way, Crowley looked over a whole roomful of friends, where two months ago he’d only had one. Nothing like the end of the world to bring opposites together. 

Wandering over from the table in the middle of the room, Hastur linked his arm with Ligur’s. “You’ve been holding out on us, Crowley.”

“How so?”

“Archangel Raphael? With your power, you could have been a big name in Hell. You could have taken a promotion, at least, sometime over the past six thousand years.” 

“Ehh, well. With great power comes great responsibility.” He waited for someone to get the reference, but then he remembered his audience. Aziraphale of course was more likely to read Jane Austen than Marvel comics, and he doubted if Hastur or Ligur had become pop culture connoisseurs in the short time since Doomsday. 

Hastur merely raised an eyebrow, and fortunately didn’t resume his questioning of Crowley’s career choices. 

“Don’t get me wrong, this is truly a lovely little gathering,” Ligur said in a dry tone, “but I am rather anxious to get started. Crowley, you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Crowley hopped down from the counter and tried not to let his hands betray his nerves. In his mind, he added another entry to his list of last-ditch options. If he couldn’t restore Ligur, then maybe he could douse Hastur with holy water, and then at least they would have the chance to grow old and die together. Though, hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. 

Aziraphale called everyone into a rough circle, with Crowley and Ligur standing in the center. It was suddenly too quiet, and with only the dim glow of the fairy lights illuminating the interior of the shop, Crowley felt as if he were standing halfway in a different world. Everyone was watching, and he could feel the weight of their eyes, and he feared their judgement. Here he was, finally paying for his mistakes, finally righting the wrong he’d done to Ligur. No turning back now.

“Well. Erm. Not sure exactly how to start.” Crowley shifted uneasily from foot to foot. 

Aziraphale spoke, and Crowley only detected his subtle coquettish tone because he knew him so well. “I believe it’s traditional to begin with the laying on of hands and a prayer to the Lord for healing.” 

Crowley’s unamused frown was matched by Ligur’s scoff. 

“I’m not a faith healer, Aziraphale.” 

“Yeah, I’m not letting him slap any Jesus into me. No, thank you.”

Putting on a mock-affronted air, Aziraphale examined his fingernails. “Well, if you have any better ideas, be my guest.” 

Crowley eyed Ligur warily, and the former demon shrugged in response. No one really knew how this was supposed to go anyway, so if they got it wrong the first time, they’d only look... like complete idiots. 

Stepping closer, Crowley reached out to lay his palm on Ligur’s forehead. “Oh Lord Jesus--” Ligur rolled his eyes-- “and Satan, and all the dark and terrible forces of the universe, heal this demon. That is--what’s the opposite of heal?--let his soul once again be corrupted by demonic grace, and infernal magics, and errrm…”

“The lyrics to every Beastie Boys song?” Anathema offered. 

“And the lyrics to every Beastie Boys song,” Crowely finished. Working on instinct and the vague memories from millennia past, Crowley sent a healing pulse into Ligur, and it was like he’d opened the emergency exit door on an aeroplane. All the air in the room imploded, centered on Crowley and Ligur. Books swept off the shelves and bounced towards their feet, droplets of tea pelted them like a sideways rain, the lights flickered, and Crowley and Ligur clutched each other’s arms, struggling to stand up in the sudden gale. Curiously, to Crowley’s eyes it looked like the space inside the bookshop had expanded, like the circle of onlookers had been pushed back a dozen metres. Their outlines were quivery and strangely shaped. 

Wind, or magic, or something else entirely roared in Crowley’s ears, and he couldn’t hear what Ligur was yelling, but he was close enough to see his own look of desperate fear reflected in Ligur’s eyes. There was a pain that filled his whole body like he was burning, like the essence of his being was being ripped apart in an atomic heat, and he knew he was experiencing the pain Ligur felt when Crowley had thrown the bucket of holy water. He couldn’t bear it; it was an agony more excruciating than the Fall; and then it was over, replaced by a creeping ice that made his limbs lock. Darkness overcame his vision, and he and Ligur collapsed to the floor. 

Minutes later, Crowley was roused by a warm washcloth on his forehead. Aziraphale sat beside him, brushing crumbs out of his wings and wiping the sweat, or, rather, tea, from his brow. Next to them, Ligur lay with his head in Hastur’s lap, and he was rubbing his eyes as if he’d just woken from a deep sleep. The others hung back, mercifully giving them some space. 

Rising unsteadily into a sitting position, Crowley felt like throwing up. He had been battered by a hurricane-force celestial wind, as the powers of Heaven and Hell had rushed in to fill the liminal space of Ligur’s human soul. The bookshop was a disaster, books and torn pages lay scattered over the floor, and the carpet was saturated with the contents of the card table. There were feathers, too. A light dusting of Crowley’s dark downy feathers covered the floor from the door to the back wall, but several drifted in lazy circles down from the ceiling, like a black snow. 

But some were another colour altogether. Crowley picked up a secondary, which was reddish-brown with a black center and white tip, reminiscent of a sparrow feather. He looked at Ligur, who stood with Hastur’s help and stretched out his magnificent wings. 

They were back in business. 

First Hastur threw his arms around his husband in a crushing embrace, and then Lila piled in and hugged both of them. Crowley clutched Aziraphale’s hand, hardly able to believe that it had worked. Ligur was  _ back _ , he was okay, and their friends circled around, congratulating Ligur and shaking Crowley’s hand and smiling. 

After the initial frenzy of excitement had worn off, Crowley and Ligur sat down together with their backs against an empty bookshelf. They watched Aziraphale spearhead the effort to clean up the shop. Amy and Newt gathered up all the books while Sahra and Aziraphale miracled them clean. Crowley might have been inclined to help, if he hadn’t felt absolutely exhausted. He ached down to his bones. 

Sitting cross-legged in front of them, Lila salvaged three mostly-intact scones from Crowley’s paper bag and passed one to each of them. They were light and fluffy, with pops of flavour where currants were mixed in. Could have used a spot of jam, but Crowley wasn’t complaining. 

“You know, I underestimated you,” Lila said, raising a scone in Crowley’s direction. “I thought you were a run-from-all-your-problems type of person, but I can see that’s not the case.”

Crowley hoped she would never learn how right she was. How many times over the past few weeks had he considered bolting? How many times over the past six thousand years? He looked across the shop at Aziraphale, who was fussing over his books, and over at Ligur, who was leaning against the shelf with his eyes closed, and knew that his running days were over. 

“I guess I can call off my hounds now.”

“Er. Come again?” Crowley couldn’t tell if she was joking. 

Taking a casual bite of scone, Lila continued, “My Hellhounds. I set them on your trail right after I found out you’d hurt Ligur.” 

“Wait a minute…” Crowley thought back to that night, weeks ago, when he’d been terrified by scratching at his door and the sound of hungry, slobbering breaths. “That was you?!” 

“No hard feelings, right?” 

He still couldn’t tell if she was joking. “No hard--I thought I was going to die, alone in my kitchen... wearing tartan boxers. Hell, I never would have lived that down.”

Ligur chuckled. Then, he miracled a spread of strawberry jam on his scone, and polished it off with gusto. “Crowley… I’m not going to thank you, because this mess was your fault in the first place, but... You did good.” He nodded at Crowley.

Suddenly, Crowley’s heart felt lighter. He’d cast off the wages of sin, from himself and from Ligur, and he was beginning to think that this hard-won peace might actually last. 

The sky had darkened and the moon had risen by the time the bookshop was cleaned up and everyone was ready to go home. Sahra and Amy were the first to go, as they had to return to the States via miracle travel, which was exhausting at the best of times. 

“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Barachiel said to Crowley. “You were always my favourite Archangel. Don’t be a stranger now!” And he followed the Vegas angel and demon out the door. 

Before she left, Anathema pulled out a curious pair of spectacles with red and green lenses and scanned the room. Everyone remaining watched her watching them, until finally she said, “Now I’m certainly not the expert in the room, but is Ligur looking a little, well, different to anyone else?” 

Crowley looked at him, and Ligur looked back with a bemused expression. He was the same as always, with his leather jacket and a light autumn scarf, only now with the addition of those massive brown wings folded neatly at his back. But then, Crowley realized what Anathema had meant, and he  _ looked _ at Ligur. 

Soul flickering in the faint illumination of the fairy lights, Ligur was a churning vessel of power. Reality stood still around him, ready to do his bidding, as it did with all angels and demons. And Anathema was right, there was something different. Instead of the dark void of demonic magic or the blinding radiance of angelic grace, Ligur’s vital force was a steady glow, like the ocean right before the sun rose. Soft and golden as if with the light of dawn, the waves of his power emanated from him in an unceasing rhythm. 

Nobody asked the question that was on everybody’s mind, not even Newt, who was looking utterly confused. 

After making Aziraphale promise to come visit soon, Anathema and Newt left for Tadfield in Newt’s rickety car, which gave Crowley physical pains to look at. He’d like to see Tadfield again, and check on the kids, though he wasn’t sure if the Bentley was emotionally recovered from their last journey there. 

Then, Ligur gave Crowley a one-armed hug, and he, Hastur, and Lila left, too. 

The shop was quiet then, but not the quiet of lonely, forgotten places. It was the quiet of a home that hummed with the recent memories of close friends and good cheer. 


End file.
